


Of Different Destinies and Star-Crossed Lovers

by JoanneMacarania



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aiding and Abetting Dangerous Criminals, Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death Eaters, Department of Mysteries, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship, Illegal Activities, M/M, Pureblood Culture, Reforms, Spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-05-26 22:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 61,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15010451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoanneMacarania/pseuds/JoanneMacarania
Summary: In the spring of 1982, the Doctors Granger - along with their daughter Hermione - decided to move to Wiltshire. The Grangers had no regrets about leaving London for the countryside - until Hermione started growing up, and it was made clear that as a bright, precocious child, she wouldn’t have many friends. Then she met that mysterious, blond-haired boy, Draco Malfoy, and somehow they became best friends.This, of course, changes everything.





	1. Prologue

It was a crisp spring day in 1982 that the Doctors Granger decided to move, along with their precocious daughter Hermione, to rural Wiltshire.

A freak fire had burnt down their old practice – though thankfully, they hadn’t had to pay much in damages, and an old friend had told them about an opening. Wiltshire was in need of good dentists, and they fit the bill. Apparently, the pay would be better as well – and Jean and Dan Granger wanted the best for their little girl.

“The country would be good for a little growing girl, you think?” Jean had asked her husband.

“I do believe so.” Despite both of them growing up, and living, in London, Dan’s parents had always extolled the values of living in simple rural counties as opposed to the busy, smog-filled cities.

“It would do us good, I think, to raise our daughter in the calm, uncluttered countryside,” Dan had agreed.

And so, one April day, they packed all their belongings in their minivan, little three-year-old Hermione bouncing in the back, sold their London apartment to a bright young couple, and set out for Colerne, Wiltshire.

The Grangers were immediately charmed by their little two-storey house, which boasted a very generous yard. The house had been abandoned for a couple of years, and as such was in disrepair. Thankfully, the dental practice – next street down – was not in as dire straits. Though there were some renovations to do, on the house and on the practice (which needed to be brought up to code), the Grangers tackled them with glee. Both loved a challenge, and Hermione was perfectly angelic, already reading baby books while her parents shaped up their new home and practice.

Within a month, their practice – Drs. Granger – and their quaint little house, named the Vines, were both livable and open. The neighbors were perfectly nice, if a little close-minded, the Anglican church was right next to the practice, and there were no oppressive city noises. Colerne even had their legends – on the outskirts of the village stood an imposing Manor house, which was subject to all sorts of gossip and speculation.

Impressive, black and imposing, the place – known simply as the Manor house – it wasn’t in ruins, but it didn’t look lived in. Word around the village was that a family lived there, and that they might even have a little child, but no one ever saw the mysterious Lord and Lady of the Manor. In fact, though many gossiped about the place, no-one seemed inclined to go up there and get to know the reclusive family. It was all a bit exciting, this little village mystery, though privately Jean Granger worried about a child growing up in such an environment.

In conclusion, the Grangers had no regrets leaving London and moving to Wiltshire – until Hermione started growing up, and it was made clear that as a bright, precocious child, she wouldn’t have many friends. Until their daughter met the mysterious blond-haired boy. Then, all was well.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling, of course. :)


	2. Interlude – December 1985, Wiltshire: A Meeting Between Two Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which An Improbable Yet Very Important Meeting Takes Place

_ It was December; Hermione Granger was six years old, and she was absolutely miserable. _

_ She’d just started at the local primary school, and already it had been clear that she was exceptional. She could already read quite complex texts, either always knew the answer or sought it out, and had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. To the children of her class, she was quite intimidating – which meant that from the beginning, she’d been alone. _

_ The teachers were all very nice and encouraging, and the librarian was her favorite person, apart from her parents, but she was teased for always knowing the answer, for her bushy hair and buckteeth, and for the fact that she’d been born in London, and not in Colerne. All of this added up to two facts; one, Hermione Granger was miserable, and secondly, she really wanted a friend. A true friend, one like in all of her favorite books – someone who liked reading and learning and asking questions, who wouldn’t tease her for her appearance, who wouldn’t ever leave even if a zombie apocalypse came to happen (it was true, she was a bit morbid; someone like her, even at her young age, had some rather interesting thoughts). _

_ “Why does no one like me?” she’d asked her parents miserably, once. At the stricken looks her parents gave her in turn, Hermione swallowed down the hurt and swore to never ask again. After all, it wasn’t their fault none of the village kids wanted to befriend a know-it-all. Instead, she went to the library and read books about everything – they were her only friends, her only solace.  _

_ Until, of course, one rather exceptional day.  _

_ - _

_ It was December; Draco Malfoy was five years old, and he was having an absolutely miserable day.  _

_ One day, his parents had invited some of the pureblood families for tea, and since he was too young to properly attend, he’d been left with the children. Crabbe and Goyle, however, were as dumb as a ton of bricks, and little Draco thought it creepy how they just followed him around everywhere. And Dobby had had his fingers ironed – who knows why, he was  _ always _ disobedient – so he couldn’t even play his favorite game (which was torture the house-elf). It wasn’t torture, per say, but the spoiled Malfoy child quite enjoyed kicking the ‘servant’ around, making him do all sorts of giggle-inspiring things.  _

_ By the time the cold-faced pureblood parents took off with their children, Draco had been on the verge of a tantrum. _

_ “Why do I have to play with them?” he’d moaned to his mother once, when Father had been shut up in his study. “They’re boring, and I want a friend, not human House-Elves!” _

_ His mother, who was the most beautiful person, though she rarely showed emotion, had smiled what Draco felt was a sad smile. Draco was used to getting what he wanted, and didn’t care about the consequences – he was a Malfoy, like Father always said – but making his mother sad made  _ him _ feel sad. So he swore, in the way Malfoys did, that this was the one thing he’d never complain about.  _

_ So when the stupid gargoyles, as he called them, had finally left, Draco was left wandering the dimly-lit halls of his home. He couldn’t throw a tantrum about not having a friend who was smart, thought for themselves and didn’t follow his every command (it was all very nice, but when it happened all the time, it made him want to tear his hair out!), so he decided to summon Dobby, hurt or not. _

_ “I can’t kick him around, or else Mother will get mad since Dobby won’t heal and then won’t do his duties…but I can tell him to take me away!” Draco might have been a spoiled, bigoted little brat, but he was also a fairly intelligent one. Instant gratification might have eroded that intelligence over time, and the cunning his five-year-old self possessed, but then, on this day in fact, he met someone even more intelligent than him – which made all the difference. _

_ With all his five-year-old cunning and arrogance, Draco knew that there were wards that prevented him from going down to the village, which was populated by  _ Muggle filth _. It was very serious, and he wasn’t supposed to taint himself with them. But he was bored, and the walls were closing down on him, and the loneliness was choking – and he also knew that the wards didn’t apply to House-Elves. At the very least, he could experiment, which is what his Uncle Sev did.  _

_ “Dobby!” he called imperiously, hoping Mother and Father wouldn’t hear him. With a crack, the ugly, pathetic house-elf appeared, whinging and wringing its hands. “Take me out of the Manor,” he said, infusing all his self-importance into his words. With a look of fear on his face, which rather delighted Draco, the creature nodded, and grabbed his arm. “Oh, and make it so that Mother and Father think I’m still in the Manor,” he added, knowing from experience that Dobby could make it so that the magical signature Father used to track him was someplace he actually wasn’t. With another crack, they both disappeared. _

_ - _

_ Though it was winter, Hermione decided that the library, as cozy and homey as it felt, was too  _ claustrophobic _. It was a new word she’d learned today, and it was exactly how she felt. She might have been young, but she felt keenly, and her miserableness threatened to overwhelm her. Hoping the fresh air would make her think of happier things, she bundled up, took her book, and went to the abandoned park. They’d made a new one, which all the village kids frequented, but Hermione preferred the solitude of the rusted old one. That one had a lock that was never really locked, and the creaky swing was a perfect place to read a book, or look at the puffy white clouds. _

_ In a small village like Colerne, it was no strange sight to see little children wandering about on their own, so no one bothered Hermione as she made her way to the park, brushing off yesterday’s snow from the swing, and hoisting herself up on it. She wasn’t able to swing herself yet, but it was nice sitting there, elevated above the ground – but at a reasonable elevation.  _

_ “I don’t really feel like reading,” she said to herself, and so kept the book clasped against her chest, arms wound around the swing’s chains. Lost in her thoughts, she idly wondered whether something like a magic wardrobe to another world would ever happen to her in Real Life when a crack startled her, making her tumble onto the hard ground. _

_ “Dobby! I didn’t mean here! I meant away from there! What even is this place?” a boy’s voice whined. It didn’t seem to be an older boy’s, so Hermione, groaning all the while, thought it safe to sit up. However, it did sound shook-up, once Hermione thought about it. _

_ “My book!” she hissed, and picked it up from the ground, brushing snow off its plastic cover. “And we’re in a playground, whoever you are,” she snapped to the unknown entity. It was only after she’d secured the book, wiped the snow off her face, and shoved her hair back, that she was able to look up at a most bizarre sight!  _

_ In front of her, with an expression of absolute shock, was a pale, blond boy. He had interesting clothes – what Hermione thought Victorian clothes would look like. The most shocking bit was that she saw no footprints in the snow, as if he’d just appeared out of nowhere – and beside him stood a creature with large bat-like ears, bulging green eyes, wearing what looked like an old pillowcase. _

_ “Wh-what?” Hermione said shrilly. Not the best first impression, per se, but one didn’t expect strangely-dressed boys with strange creatures to bother them in an abandoned playground! _

_ “Who are you?” he sneered. Hermione had been right; the boy looked to be about her age, but she could tell that he was what her parents called old-money.  _

_ “Excuse me! My name’s Hermione Granger. May I ask who that beside you is?” she asked, wondering if she’d hit her head and was hallucinating or something? She was sure she’d seen something like that on the telly… _

_ “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy,” he drawled. With that, Hermione broke into giggles. Not because his name was strange – she was named after a character in a Shakespeare play, so she couldn’t complain – but because he said his name like on the James Bond movies her parents watched at night (they let her watch snippets, when she was on exceptionally good behavior). _

_ However, Draco apparently wasn’t aware of how British-secret-spy he sounded, and took offense, sneering at her. “That is Dobby,” he continued with a death glare, pointing at the creature beside him. _

_ “And what is Dobby?” she asked, taking a step back when Draco’s face suddenly twisted in disgust. _

_ “You! You’re a Muggle!” he hissed. _

_ “A Muggle! That’s not very nice,” she said automatically, knowing however that he was just like all the other village children. Whatever a Muggle was, it was an insult – maybe an old word for working-class? – and he was just another bully. A rich, entitled bully. That hurt, because whoever he was, and whatever Dobby was, he seemed like he would be an interesting person to know, but he was just like the others, and hated her on sight.  _

_ For a moment, they both stared at each other, while Dobby was wringing its-his?-hands and muttering something about a Master shutting his ears in the oven. Then, just as Draco opened his mouth to speak, a sudden cold shocked her to her bones. It was December, and as such there was snow and cold, but this coldness was like bone-deep, making her shiver. She wasn’t the only one affected – Draco took a step back, eyes widening in fear.  _

_ Then, for whatever reason, her memory started playing in a loop. She started hearing all the mean things the other kids told her, and the playground taunt they’d made up about her became louder and louder, and she collapsed to her knees. She might have stayed there, but suddenly a hand grasped her arm, and she was pulled up to her feet. _

_ “Run!” Draco’s voice, which sounded from far away, said, and in that moment she decided to trust this bully stranger, and ran. They ran across the playground’s grounds, and ducked behind some frozen shrubbery. About to ask what exactly was going on, she looked up and gasped fearfully. There, making the snowy ground frozen, was some sort of grim-reaper figure gliding about. It was tall and hooded, with scaly arms protruding from within the folds of the cloak, and it took deep, sucking, shuddering breaths. _

_ “Oh no!” whispered the boy beside her, eyes fixed on the very same thing.  _

_ “What is that thing?” she hissed, scared and panicking. _

_ “You see it too?” he asked, voice full of panic.  _

_ “Yes! What is it? What does it want? Will it hurt us – will it hurt others?” _

_ “We have to get out…” Draco said numbly, crouched beside her. “How?” she hissed back. _

_ “Dobby!” he said suddenly. “Dobby, get us both out of here – not back at the Manor!” _

_ Draco tightened the grip he had yet to loosen on her arm, and with another crack, the horrifying scenery in front of them vanished. She fell on the ground, startled to feel pavement instead of the snow-covered grass of the playground. _

_ When she stumbled up for the second time, they were by some ruined well, snow and trees surrounding them. _

_ “What? How?” she whispered. _

_ “That was…that was a…Dementor,” Draco whispered, shocked. “I saw…a Dementor…”  _

_ “Listen, I don’t know what a Muggle is, or why you hate me, but I do believe you owe me an explanation!” she said hysterically. What happened to going to the playground to clear her head?!? _

_ “Fine. But I don’t think you’re a Muggle. That…that was a Dementor. It’s a…prison guard, for Azkaban.” _

_ “Azkaban?” _

_ “The Wizarding prison. Except only magical people can see it.” With that, he turned, and looked at her with intense grey eyes. “Have you done anything…strange? When you’re upset or angry?” he asked, looking as though he oughtn’t have said that.  _

_ “No, not that I remember. I’m ordinary…Just the village know-it-all.”  _

_ “Yes, I heard them talk about you, before I told Dobby to get me away from the Muggle children. You must be a Squib, to have seen Dementors.” _

_ He took a deep breath, and regarded her. She felt as if she was being tested, and it seems she passed it, because Draco started weaving the most incredible story – and deep in the heart of her, even without Dobby and that Dementor and the demonstration he did with a self-forming snowball, she knew it was all true. There was a Wizarding world, where magic resided, and it was hidden from the Muggles – non-magical people. There were house-elves and trolls and vampires and dragons, and all sorts of exciting and scary things. _

_ “Why do you think a Dementor was here, in Wiltshire of all places, if it guards a prison on a rock in the middle of nowhere?” _

_ “Dunno. Mother and Father don’t talk about these things to me, so I have to eavesdrop. I figure it’s because they needed to apprehend a criminal, so they sent the Aurors – dark-wizard catchers – and a Dementor as a scout.” _

_ “Well, I hope its gone!” Realizing she’d left her book in the playground, both children, alongside Dobby, tentatively made their way back. Once there, she picked up her book, and Draco, thoughtful look on his face, told her to wait here. With a crack, he vanished with Dobby, but was back within minutes.  _

_ “You like books, right?” Hermione nodded. “So here’s a book about magical creatures, since you’ve just met one.” On the cover page, the title read  _ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _. Hermione still thought Draco a little bully, and she figured being a Squib was just as bad as being a Muggle, in his eyes. But from that moment on, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy became friends. There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and running away from a Dementor with a house-elf in tow is one of them. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, for the purposes of this story, Malfoy Manor is visible to Muggle eyes. It is Unplottable, heavily warded, etc., but it can be seen by the people in the village. It doesn't look derelict, and has anti-Muggle charms; no-one is able to get close to the Manor, and Muggles can't talk about it to those who don't live in the village. Therefore, people like Mr. and Mrs. Granger can see Malfoy Manor, and thus are not surprised at a boy who seemingly came out of nowhere.
> 
> Concerning Updates: I'll try my best to post a new chapter per week. :)


	3. A Nighttime Conversation (First Year)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Doctors Granger find out they have a witch in the family.

The Grangers, living at 5 Rose Avenue, in Colerne, Wiltshire, were perfectly normal.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger were dentists, and worked at a thriving practice right round the corner. They also had a young daughter, named Hermione, who was a stubborn, bright, and inquisitive child. True, sometimes odd things happened – cups would rattle or move without help, and books on the arcane did lie around in their daughter’s bedroom, and sometimes their daughter would show up with scrapes that she refused to explain. Explosions would happen in her room occasionally, and two well-used swords hung on the wall of the drawing room. Contrary to their neighbors, the Grangers happened to be ‘bleeding-heart Liberals,’ and were very involved in civil rights issues, strange as it might be in a country village. And finally, provided that he never deliberately hurt their daughter, the Grangers were perfectly happy with their daughter’s rather strange friend, a young boy named Draco Malfoy. 

Yes, they were perfectly normal, and perfectly happy, until one night in 1991, both children cornered the dentists and told them a strange, fantastic story – aided with a yellow parchment letter with a purple seal, addressed in green in to Mr. Malfoy, the Green Room, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England. 

The story was of magic, and prejudice, death and clandestine meetings and a castle in Scotland. And though the Grangers were furious, and scared, and apprehensive for their daughter, they were the kind of people who advocated for second chances, learning from the past, and judging people based on their actions and motives – not just who they appeared to be. As such, they certainly couldn’t begrudge their daughter doing the same thing, and having made a friend who was now standing straight and determined, clearly having made his choice. Besides, it had been six years since Hermione had met Draco, and they quite liked him, despite his snobby attitude – bad examples on the part of parents, the Grangers had always thought – and his quirky knowledge. Now, when they knew the true story – of persecution, Death Eaters, and Dark magic – they were hard-pressed not to empathise with the boy who had stood by their daughter, made even more impressive by the truth of his upbringing. 

So Jean and Dan Granger took the story, and its implications in stride, showed support in the right places, and made both frightened and determined children mugs of strong tea. Afterwards, as they all sat in the quaint parlour sipping their tea, they started formulating careful answers, soaking up all the knowledge Draco and Hermione were able to supply.

“So, you’re a witch?” Jean asked, knowing that from now on, things would never be the same.

“Yes, she is,” Draco piped up, too strung to properly drawl as he usually did. “She’s a mudblood,” he stated blandly. “Means her parents are Muggles – have no magic, like you. Lot of people, especially the old families, don’t take kindly to mudbloods, though they apparently can’t do much because of Dumbledore, who’s Headmaster at the school Hermione and I are going to. Father – who would know such things – says that Dumbledore’s a mudblood-loving fool, and the worst thing that happened to Hogwarts. This means those like her will have some protection, I suppose, but the truth is, almost everyone don’t like mudbloods. You’ll never see them in positions of  _ importance _ at the Ministry, and even bloodtraitors don’t often marry mudbloods. Besides, though I do not agree with everything my Father says – clearly – he does not think the Headmaster’s trustworthy, and neither do I. He may be a mudblood lover, but Hogwarts under him is slipping in standards. Father’s on the Board of Governors, so he’d know. I’d watch out for him. I suppose, what I’m trying to say, is that it won’t be all rah rah if Hermione goes to Hogwarts. I mean, she ought to go – she’s a witch, which  _ neither _ of us knew until  _ yesterday _ – and I’d  _ want _ her to go, but as Hermione says all the time –” with that he glared at her, though both parents saw it was an affectionate glare – “honesty is the best policy.”

With that, he took a deep breath, and steeled himself. He was a Malfoy, and knew how to comport himself with dignity due of a Malfoy heir. 

Jean and Dan looked at each other, and at the children gripping hands tightly. Here was the son of a Death Eater, who were apparently a cross between the KKK and the Nazis, sitting beside their daughter, in support of her. He’d always been somewhat respectful to them, though they’d always given him leeway, seeing as he had been raised peculiarly, and in the end always came through for their daughter. Now, he was openly defying the edicts of his Father, the edicts he had been raised to wholeheartedly believe. Once, he had given Hermione a priceless gift, befriending the little know-it-all the other village kids were wary of, and it would go against their principles to ignore that and run him off. It would also go against their principles to deprive Hermione of this part of herself that she hadn’t even known about until recently.

“Very well. We’ll take a good look at this Hogwarts…but, I suppose, the choice is yours, Hermione,” Dan said.

With that pronouncement, the tension that had been in the room receded. 

Things still needed ironing out, but there wouldn’t be a drawn-out row. Hermione perked up, now smiling madly. Beside her, the blond-haired boy exhaled in relief, most likely having gotten the unspoken permission to stay around. He’d always been sharp and cunning, which Dan always appreciated in a person. It meant that he didn’t have to spell everything out; what with Hermione, and her only friend, he’d gotten used to treating them as older than just 11-and-12 year-old children. 

“Umm… I think, if I remember what Father said correctly, they send a Professor from Hogwarts, for the mudbloods. That way, they explain in person, and….” Draco started, then trailed off.

“Make it more respectable and real, I suppose,” Hermione cut in, sitting primly. “I don’t believe many of us, and our parents, would take kindly to a letter telling them they were a witch – or a wizard. I’ve known about the Wizarding world for ages, and I have plentiful proof, but anyone who got that letter might just think it was a malicious prank.”

“Yes. I remember Father ranting about it, when he was trying to bring down the budget for the scholarships the mudbloods – and the half-bloods – receive. He’d have tried to bar all mudbloods, but under Dumbledore that would never happen, so all he could do was complain about the inconvenience of having to waste the Professors’ time running to all the prospective students and explaining about magic, and convincing them to come.”

“Huh,” Hermione sniffed, but it was clear to her parents that she was used to such pronouncements, and therefore took it no mind.

“So, I would save all the questions about the curriculum and all that – though I know they don’t teach the Muggle things, like Maths and Sciences…but I wouldn’t mention the fact that you already know about the Wizarding world.”

“And, I reckon, no mentioning you?”

“Not unless you want to explain to whomever Dumbledore sends – they’re likely to be the same ilk as him – why you’ve let your daughter befriend a Malfoy?”

“Covert operations – got it,” Dan replied.

“Like James Bond!” Hermione enthused, making Draco roll his eyes. Most of the times he came over, dressed in clothes too formal for a child his age – Jean had always thought, at least – it was either for studying up in Hermione’s room, or the weekly film nights. The favorite was always James Bond, and Draco had expressed appreciation for Indiana Jones, and Hermione had made him watch Star Wars over and over and over – Princess Leia had always been one of her role models. 

“Draco does raise a good point, however,” Jean said. She didn’t want to get into it, but better to get it over with, and focus on exactly what this magical world entailed, and what were the rules and restrictions.

Immediately sensing the shift in atmosphere, Draco bowed his head deferentially – the third time he’d ever done that with the Grangers – and Hermione tensed, squeezing her friend’s hand tightly.

“I will not insult either of you, and pretend that you’ve not been good for Hermione,” Jean began.

“Or that our Hermione has been good for you,” Dan added.

“Right. But it seems to me, both of you are at opposites of a divide that is still rather present, if what you’ve said is any indication. I gather that your father doesn’t know about this… _ illicit _ friendship, and it’s all probably for the best. What I am worried about, is when you both go to this school.”

“Well, I know that Hermione and I are not going to be in the same dorms. We  _ can’t _ be.”

“Oh, of course! Slytherin!” Hermione said knowingly. Suddenly, it was as if she was filled with energy, just now contemplating that she really was going to this Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

“Yes. We’re all Sorted into Houses, when we first get to Hogwarts,” Draco began for their benefit. “Don’t ask me how, Father won’t tell me, but we somehow get Sorted into one of the four Houses, each of which have some sort of trait or type particular to them. Slytherin, the one I know I’m going to be in –” at that Hermione was the one rolling her eyes, but Draco only said, “I am a Malfoy. Not only Malfoys are always in Slytherin, we’re the cunning and ambitious of the lot.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Hermione replied. If Jean and Dan knew anything, it was that Hermione was suddenly contemplating exactly which House she’d get Sorted into.

“And the others?” 

“Well, those who are in Hufflepuff are know as duffers, but I think they’re supposed to be the hardworking and loyal. Gryffindor is bravery and courage – really, just bluster and stupidity, like Uncle Sev says. They’re the ones that the whole school like. Finally, is Ravenclaw – the intelligent and sharp of wit.”

“I once thought I’d want to be in Gryffindor, when you told me about the Houses,” Hermione mused, “but after all the stories about them, I’m not sure I’d want to be a Gryffindor.”

“Well, I’d not want you to be in Gryffindor either, but as long as you’re not in Slytherin… Mudbloods aren’t welcome there. If you were a half-blood, maybe. We’ll see, I suppose. Anyhow, we won’t be Sorted into the same House, for starters. I doubt Hermione would want to be seen with me, as friends, given that everyone hates Slytherins, despite us not being  _ all _ evil,” he said bitterly. His Uncle Sev had told him all about House prejudice. Had he not befriended Hermione one winter’s day, he might not have cared or known about the implications, but this surprising friendship had forcibly opened his eyes to such things.

“Tosh!” Hermione said angrily. “I know we’ve never bothered to talk about what would happen if I somehow was a witch and got into Hogwarts, but you of all people know that I couldn’t care one whit about that sort of thing! Firstly, it would most likely be just like primary here – no one wants to befriend the know-it-all, and I doubt magic somehow changes that. Secondly, I did knowingly become friends with a spoiled, prejudiced brat who lives in a Manor, one who didn’t know anything about how this world worked, and as such fit in even less. The real question, I guess, is what you want to do. If you need to pretend you don’t know me, at least during classes, I’d…understand. I’ve only seen your father once, and you know my opinions about him.”

“You always do tell me all about your opinions, even if I couldn’t care less,” Draco snarked back.

With bated breaths, both parents waited for his response. It was a very viable question, and what Jean had hoped to resolve now before it festered and ruined things.

“Besides…I likely won’t have any friends either. I’ll have Crabbe and Goyle.”

“Right. Your bodyguards.”

“Their fathers owe my father, so they have to follow me around. Pansy – well, she is one of the candidates for my future wife. The rest of the pureblood children, I haven’t seen much of. They, and anyone else in Slytherin, would just be allies and connections. Not friends. Father will kill me, but he did almost end up in Azkaban, and I suppose that means I should not follow directly in his footsteps.”

He turned to Hermione on the couch they were sitting in, and grasped her other hand. “Listen. I – somehow – became friends with you when I thought you were a Muggle. A lowly, filthy Muggle – you know Father’s views as much as I do. I snuck around, I lied, I betrayed much of the pureblood creed – I broke my hand for you, which is why my dominant hand is now my left. In return, I got a know-it-all who was determined to learn Latin to help me make spells, despite the fact that it’s Seventh Year coursework. I got a friend who learned how to ride a broom, even though she hated heights, hated flying, and thought it was a death trap. I got someone who slapped me when I said something too derogatory, but never tried to  _ make _ me a mudblood lover like Dumbledore. You’re my friend, and over and over I’ve always thought how unfair it was that you weren’t even a mudblood. And now it turns out you  _ are _ . You’re going to Hogwarts, to learn magic – which I know you’ll be amazing at. I’m not a very nice person, and I don’t really want to be one, but you don’t ever make me choose. Because of you, I never had to grow up with only the House Elves as companions. If you don’t mind being seen with a Malfoy, I suppose I won’t mind being seen with a Granger. Father won’t make a big, public fuss if this gets wind to him.” With that, he let out a deep breath, clearly winded.

For Dan and Jean, who’d known of their close friendship, but never the details – Hermione was always autonomous, and seeing her happy and animated and interested always trumped the scuffles she seemed to get into, the long forays into the countryside with Draco, or her strange (not so strange, as it turns out) reading interests, it was revelatory but vindication in a way. To see these two, so young yet so mature, knowing about the unfairness of the world without having actually lived through it, it soothed all of the residual fears. Of course, Jean had always been a bit wary of the fact that he was rather close-minded, but had acknowledged that it was due to his upbringing; and, despite the standoffishness of his behavior towards them, or even towards Hermione on occasion, he stuck around, he learned, and he adapted. Dan had taught him how to cook the only meal he didn’t ruin – steak and kidneys. Jean, whose father had been a mechanic, had taught him how vehicles worked, and how to fix them. Whatever his reservations, he had kept his dialogue devoid of anything derogatory, and had studiously learnt what they tried to teach him. 

“You jump, I jump,” Hermione agreed, referencing a vow that had stuck with them throughout their six years of friendship. 

“I jump, you jump,” Draco agreed, and that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, everyone, for the hits and the comments and the kudos! It means so much to me, and I'm glad you're liking this story so far.


	4. Draco's Uncle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a few more things are clarified, and the Doctors Granger are reassured.

They all went back to the kitchen, mugs of tea drained.

“We probably shouldn’t openly court the wrath of everyone, but I am not going to pretend that I’ve never met Hermione Granger before. That would be quite impossible – and quite unbearable,” Draco drawled, suddenly completely at ease. The decision had been made, and no matter the consequences, Draco didn’t fancy much having a life devoid of this amazing, brilliant person – who happened to be a mudblood witch.

“Let me guess – subtlety.”

“Exactly. I’ve learned from the best,” Draco smirked, referencing his Uncle Severus.

“Oh God!” Hermione exclaimed suddenly in the dimly lit kitchen, startling her parents and her friend.

“Your Uncle Severus…he teaches at Hogwarts. He’s the Potions Professor. I’m going to Hogwarts – he’ll be teaching me potions!” she squealed, jumping up and down. Clearly not knowing how to react, Draco lounged on the counter with quite too much arrogance for an 11-year-old, and held the now-creased envelope he hadn’t let go of.

Immediately, one more piece of the puzzle clicked for the Doctors Granger. Two years ago, Hermione had gotten injured, badly. Jean had heard from the librarian that a gang of older boys – 13 years – had decided to terrorize their little girl. Present at the scene, Draco had decided to get involved; it was still two to five, however, and Draco had, according to Hermione after the fact, hadn’t known how to win fisticuffs. Just when things were dire – no one with authority had been at the scene, and the others watching the fight had been victims of bystander syndrome – a black-clad man had swooped in, pulled the older boys away with ease, and had hoisted Hermione up, bridal-style. Though Draco had a bruise or two, and bloody knuckles, Hermione had been much worse off when he’d brought the two children to the Vines.

“Your daughter has run afoul of a gang of bloody idiots,” he’d sneered with a commanding, silky voice. He’d had glittering black eyes, a bit of a hooked nose, and curtains of black hair that hid a bit of his face. His clothes had been a little odd, but by then the Grangers had gotten used to the garb Draco wore, and it was about the same. Immediately, they’d invited him in. He hadn’t introduced himself, but as he’d laid Hermione down on the couch, and started rummaging in the bathroom for first-aid supplies, Draco had asked in a small voice, “Will she be alright, Uncle Sev?”

“Of course she will,” he’d replied brusquely, hands full of rubbing alcohol, gauze, and painkillers. “She’s not some fragile doll – just a ten-year-old girl who had the misfortune of pissing off dunderhead _bullies_ ,” he spat out the last word.

With that, Jean and Dan immediately trusted this black-clad stranger, and were rewarded when their daughter (who’d been dealt a concussion) woke up a few hours none worse for the wear. In fact, given her injuries, she’d healed quite quickly, but by then Dan and Jean were used to it.

In gratitude, they’d asked Draco and his uncle for supper, and in response to their questions he tersely responded that he was a teacher at a posh boarding school in Scotland. He didn’t like teaching much, but had experience with children – and bullies.

“As I was walking away from those boys,” he said as the Grangers grit their teeth in anger at those little bullies, “I saw one of the Bobbies come on the scene. They’ll be punished, no doubt – and if they aren’t, I suggest educating your daughter in self-defence. I doubt these will be the last people wanting to hurt your daughter, one way or another.”

“Thank you,” Jean had said, and though they only saw him from afar after that, accompanying Draco in town, he’d become an adult they trusted – and someone whom Hermione admired. Her presents from him were always extravagant yet practical; Dan agreed with his wife that whoever this Uncle Sev was, and whatever he taught – he was wasted on secondary education. And as Draco started spending more time at the Vines, he started to reference his father less, and his uncle more. He’d been the inspiration for the defence classes they’d enrolled Hermione in, learning in the process that she’d picked up medieval sword fighting already.

“He’s not really my uncle,” Dan had heard Draco tell Hermione once. “He’s my godfather, but he allows the ‘informal address.’”

“He’s a wizard?” Dan said now, suddenly understanding many things just now.

“Yes. He’s the Potion Professor at Hogwarts – it’s like _Chemistry_ , I think? He’s my godfather. He was also a Death Eater – I think Father was the one to introduce him to the Dark Lord. That’s what they call him.”

“Him? But why would he heal Hermione, if he thinks that all non-magical people are worse than dirt?” Jean asked, feeling more confused than betrayed. She’d only met him once, but his Christmas and birthday presents were always waiting for Hermione, and both Draco and their daughter were absolutely in awe of him and his vast knowledge. She understood that Draco’s father had been a Death Eater, and had passed on their bigoted values – and that somehow, the message had failed along the way, seeing as Draco was friends with a _mudblood_ – but why were Draco’s uncle’s actions so opposite to the Death Eater’s creed? Jean was someone who wanted to know why, who thought motive was just as important as actions – and her inquisitiveness and beliefs bore fruit in this case.

“Well, I know that Uncle Severus is not even a pureblood. He’s a half-blood – his father was a _Muggle_. I asked him once, why he joined the Dark Lord; Uncle Sev told me that it was complicated, but one of the reasons had been because he’d wanted to be powerful and study the Dark Arts with like-minded people. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t care about blood status. He’s known about Hermione for ages – he’s the one who helps me evade Father all the time, and he’s always passing along interesting potions texts for her to read. Besides, I heard it say that the reason he’d avoided Azkaban –”

“The Wizarding prison,” Hermione interjected –

“Was because he was a spy. Father said the Dark Lord thought Uncle Sev had been a spy for him, and Dumbledore said that he’d been a spy for the _Light_ side,” he finished derisively. “I know he hates the fact that he became one in the first place, and that he had a mudblood friend once.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, ignoring her suddenly relieved parents – who were also suddenly intrigued.

“Yes. You know how he caught me sneaking out once? That’s why he didn’t mind, and why he doesn’t say anything to Father, and why he doesn’t mind you. He told me that his friend had been a powerful, intelligent witch, and though he thought you were a Muggle, he saw…parallels, I suppose.”

“What happened to this friend?” Jean inquired.

“Don’t know. All Uncle Sev told me was that she died, during the War, and that they’d been estranged before. It’s why he’s always insistent on meaning what you say, and thinking before speaking. They’d been drifting apart apparently – I mean, he did become a Death Eater, which meant he wanted it, once upon a time –and he said something that made everything fall apart.”

“This War – you mean with the Death Eaters?” Dan asked.

“Yes. The Dark Lord, with his followers, wanted to kill all the mudbloods and the blood-traitors and then subjugate the Muggles or something. Father doesn’t talk about it, and Uncle Sev tells me to stay away from the books on the subject – they’re biased and full of misinformation, he says – and to ask ‘my Muggle friend’ about the Second World War.”

Hermione, who Jean noticed had been biting her lip in concentration, asked, “Is that why he hates the word mudblood?”

“I guess so. I mean, if he’d been friends with one, and they’d fallen out, and then she’d died, he wouldn’t necessarily want to be reminded of what everyone else called her.”

“What do you mean,” Dan said.

“Well, mudblood’s a dero – derorga –”

“Derogatory word, Malfoy,” Hermione sniped.

“Whatever, Granger. Mudblood’s a derogatory word for muggleborns; people like Hermione, whose parents are completely non-magical. I said it once one day when he was teaching me how to brew, and he blew up. I’d never seen him so…mad at me. I mean, if it hadn’t been for Hermione, I don’t think we’d be that close, but he’s always there, sarcastic but _there_ no matter what, and it _hurt_. So I never use that word in front of him, anymore.”

“If it’s such a derogatory term, why have you been referring to Hermione that way?” Jean inquired.

“Because…it _is_ the proper term. Not even Father uses it in public, but everyone – apart from blood-traitors – probably thinks like that.”

“And because it’s a compliment, actually,” Hermione bounced, as if she hadn’t been constantly insulted for her birth. It was a sad realization to the Grangers that this behavior didn’t faze them anymore. She’d always been different, in a special way.

“Like, when we first became friends, Draco had to tell me about magic. It goes against the International Statute of Secrecy, which keeps the Wizarding world hidden from the Muggle world – you’ll know about it because I’m a witch, but you can only tell immediate family. Anyhow, he didn’t have much of a choice – besides, the law is the law, yes, but sometimes the law’s wrong. It doesn’t even matter anymore, because I’m a witch!”

“Yes, you are, Granger,” Draco smirked. Addressing the dentists, he continued, “She found out about magic by accident, and even if I’d wanted to abide by the Statute of Secrecy, I was five, and as such would have been unable to perform an Obliviate without melting Hermione’s brain – it’s a memory spell.”

“Well, I do happen to like my brain, so thank you for refraining from using a spell whose incantations you probably didn’t even know. Anyhow, mum, dad, I know that mudblood’s an insult, but not for me. When I found out about magic, I won’t lie and say that I wasn’t jealous that I wasn’t magic, but I wasn’t bitter, either. I was perfectly happy helping Draco practice incantations, doing research, watching Draco and his uncle brew potions… But Draco especially always sort of wished, in a half-hearted inside-joke sort of way, that I was a mudblood – because then I’d be a witch, and I’d have magic. So I grew up with the knowledge that being a mudblood was okay, because then I’d still be me, have you as my parents, not have to bother with the archaic pureblood traditions – but be a witch. So now that I know I have magic, that I’m a mudblood – it’s the best sort of compliment, really.”

“Besides, it goes with that psyche stuff,” Draco noted. Jean and Dan snickered; Hermione’s summer reading list had included a lot of medical texts on psychology, after a war veteran had spoken at the school last year.

“Exactly! It’s even like conditioning! I’ve always associated it with something good, and so when others call me that, I won’t be hurt or mad – I’ll be happy, because it reminds me that this is real, that I’m a _witch_.”

“At least you’ll have this measure of protection,” Dan agreed. Jean nodded along with him; it did her a world of good that Hermione already knew about this new world, its rules and its advantages and its rough bits.

“Thank you, Draco, for telling her about your world – so we’ll at least be secure in the knowledge that Hermione isn’t jumping into this head-first, with no preparation whatsoever.”

“I don’t mind. I got to show off, after all,” Draco replied, making Jean laugh. “Now that I know she’s a witch, I can teach her – you can borrow my grandfather’s wand!” he shouted suddenly, making Hermione jump up with visible excitement.

They ignored the parents watching on them with amusement, and started making plans, detailing things, creating lists… It was heartwarming to watch. There was, however, one thing nagging at Dan. “Before you both go to bed – and don’t give me those looks, it’s past midnight already – how come you didn’t know our daughter had magic?”

“It must have been me,” Draco said, suddenly sheepish. “I mean, I had magic, and me and Hermione spend quite a bit of time together, so we assumed that all the magic that we were doing was me.”

“Normally, it reveals itself through accidental magic, when you’re emotional – apparently Malfoy magic can be quite vulnerable, so I had him learn relaxing techniques, which I did as well – so my magic didn’t manifest itself the same way. I mean, we knew I was magic, a bit – I saw things that only wizards or Squibs (non-magical people born from magical families) saw, but I didn’t have any magic of myself. We figured I might be distantly related to the Dagworth-Grangers, a pureblood family, and as such an anomaly of a Squib.”

“The only way we knew she was a witch was because yesterday, a death-trap machine came barrelling down faster than it ought to have been, and it was only a protective shield that saved us. I had been in shock, and hadn’t been able to respond – we’ve found you can manipulate accidental magic – so when we bounced onto the grass, unharmed, I _knew_.”

“It was me who’d done it!” their daughter shouted excitedly.

“All this time, Hermione had been a mudblood,” Draco said with something akin to awe. Turning to look at her, he said with all seriousness, “You’re going to be bloody terrifying, you know – no matter what House you end up in. I’m quite glad I’m on your side.”

“A consummate Slytherin,” Hermione snickered, visibly proud of the quite generous compliment.

“Wait,” Jean said, as they turned to go upstairs – whenever Draco stayed over, he kipped in Hermione’s room (and no, they had concerns over this boy sleeping in their daughter’s bedroom) – “I know it’s late, and we already told you to go to bed, but…”

“You have _more_ questions?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” the Grangers said at once, chuckling.

Therefore, the inhabitants of 5 Rose Avenue, alongside their daughter’s friend (who they classified as family), stayed up until the daylight trickled in through the windows, asking about Hogwarts and magical creatures, and all of the odd things their daughter had been wont to do.

And when they heard a click at the window, and an owl flew through the pane they’d just opened – bearing a parchment envelope gleaming with green ink – they smiled indulgently at the two children. Yes, they still had concerns, especially since it seemed that they were not welcome in their daughter’s new world. But Hermione was a bright, intelligent, precocious child, with a cunning, wily best friend who matched her stubbornness, and was a wealth of information; they would all figure this out. Of that, the Doctors Granger had no doubt.


	5. Professor McGonagall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a deception is enacted, and the Head of Gryffindor House pays a visit.

The Professor from Hogwarts came three days after Hermione got her letter.

After breakfast the morning after that revelatory talk with her parents, Draco had rushed to Malfoy Manor, promising her that he’d speak to Professor Snape (which was how she always addressed him), get some spell books, and bring the wand his father let him use. 

Hermione, not tired despite the all-nighter she’d just pulled, danced around her room holding her letter, bursting with happiness. She’d known all about the Wizarding world for ages, and a small part of her had always wanted to belong to it. That way, she’d be able to do the things Draco did, like charms and spells and jinxes, and wouldn’t have to worry about how potions and spells affected her. Now, she could!!!!

Sure, she wasn’t as naïve as to believe Hogwarts would be a perfect paradise, but she’d have Draco, and his Uncle Sev – who was Severus Snape, the only Potions Master in all of England! He’d never really liked her – he taught her all he could, and lectured, and sent her amazing presents, but Hermione knew that as a little Muggle – no, a muggle-born! – know-it-all girl, she grated on a lot of his nerves. No, he didn’t like her, per se, but didn’t seem to mind teaching her – and now she’d have him for all seven years at Hogwarts! Potions fascinated her the most, because Draco and Severus Snape were both naturals at it, and because she knew that even if she had magic, it wasn’t a subject she would automatically do well it. It was a challenge, a mystery – and potions were able to produce some truly amazing, crazy things. God, she was so excited!!!!!!!!!

The next three days passed in a blur. Having permission, as always, from her parents to go with Draco to his uncle’s (though now they knew the truth), she was ensconced in Spinner’s End with Draco and Uncle Severus – who’d always insisted she call him Professor, as if she were a real Hogwarts student – casting everything she could think of. Despite having a heavy workload, from what she could tell, Professor Snape (she’d have to call him that, in person, in Hogwarts!) made time for her, teaching her how to properly hold a wand, how best to cast certain spells, and told her and Draco more about Hogwarts.

He was Head of Slytherin House, which Hermione knew meant that he was very protective of his snakes – and that she wouldn’t gain many points or praise from him in classes, being a mudblood and not in Slytherin (she fervently hoped – she was a bit envious of Slytherins, really, but navigating Hogwarts was hard enough without being surrounded by people who not only thought she was inferior, but some who showed it openly). She didn’t mind that, knowing that only he showed favoritism to the Slytherins, and why. Since no one else liked Slytherins, it was up to him to even up the scoreboard as much as possible. 

“I ought to have noticed,” he drawled on the second day, as Hermione brewed her first potion (simple first-year boil cure potion) – Draco was hovering beside her, critical of her work but excited for her at the same time.

“Well, if I didn’t know – and I’m not quite sure how, since one would think it would manifest in  _ some _ way – I’m sure you couldn’t have been expected to know, Professor.”

“Never mind that, then. I expect, when you have the time and the inclination, for you to join my godson in my rooms, so as to continue these lessons. I have always said you are a bright child – though, now that I will be forced to mark your essays, I demand that you stop quoting resources verbatim, and try for some  _ creativity _ – and I have no doubt you will be an even brighter witch. If you have no objections, of course, I would not be opposed to…lend some help. It is quite rare that talent such as yours passes through the halls of Hogwarts, and I wouldn’t want you to waste such an opportunity.”

“I’d love to, Professor! You do know how much I love extra lessons…”

“Swot,” Draco sniped back affectionately, happy that whatever would happen when September came round, they’d keep having their multitude of extracurricular lessons. 

“Prat,” Hermione shot back, smiling as well. She knew better not to thank Professor Snape, who was a Slytherin, and seemed to hate being thanked for thoughtful actions. She supposed it was strange that she was always so calm and relaxed and at home with someone who’d been a Death Eater, and someone else who’d been raised by two – but then, her life had always been strange. Hermione quite liked it that way. 

When she was done brewing, Hermione beamed up at Professor Snape and Draco, holding up her finished product. “I’ve done it!” she squealed, and then winced in consternation when Professor Snape gave her an unimpressed glare. Oops. She was just so excited!!!

“I am quite aware that it must be very…exciting, to realize you are a witch, but please do refrain from openly expressing it every time you perform a feat of magic, Miss Granger. My ears and my head will thank you for it.”

“My apologies, Professor. I’ll try to contain myself,” she said, unable to stop smiling. Beside her, Draco chuckled. He always found it so amusing, watching the interactions between his friend and his godfather. Making sure to carefully hold the flask of boil-cure potion in her left hand, she used her right to smack Draco’s arm. As it usually did, this prompted a tirade about her violent tendencies. As someone who’d learnt fencing from books, and who’d been enrolled in self-defence classes for a few years now, Hermione was not bothered when using physical violence, however slight sometimes, to make a point. It wasn’t as if Draco didn’t get his revenge, making her fly on his broomstick despite her hatred of heights and  _ hating _ trusting her life to a magically enchanted broom. 

When it started getting darker outside, Professor Snape took the book she’d been reading away, and told them it was time to go home. “Needless to say, when Professor McGonagall comes to visit – and I have to doubt it will be her; she is Gryffindor’s Head of House on top of being Deputy Headmistress – you will not mention your acquaintance with me or Draco, nor of your illicit magic-practicing and your reading of banned books.”

“Of course,” Hermione promised earnestly. It wasn’t like she loved the Dark Arts, like she knew Professor Snape still somewhat did, but with a Malfoy and a Death Eater as important people in her life, she’d figured early on that it was important to know the Dark things in order to be aware of the world, and be prepared about what could happen to someone like her. A lot of the books she read, and the things Professor Snape told her, were absolutely  _ fascinating _ –  especially when one kept in mind that a lot of magic, and a lot of these spells, depended on intention. She’d actually developed an interest in philosophy, and ethics, because of this, which delighted the ornery old man who lived across from her; he was a retired professor from Uni, and much like Professor Snape, didn’t like her much, but didn’t mind teaching her all his knowledge. 

Going outside, the Professor grabbed their arms, and with the sickening feeling of Apparition, they twisted away from the doorstep. Once the familiar houses of Rose Avenue came into sight, Professor Snape left them with a crack, black robes swishing elegantly away as he disappeared. Draco held out his hand, and Hermione took it; they walked up to the Vines in companionable silence.

“I know I’ve said it before, but I’m really glad you’re going to Hogwarts with me,” Draco said softly, in the tone of voice that meant he was absolutely serious.

“I’m glad too. No matter which House I’ll end up in, we’ll continue to be friends – and it will be epic. I’m sure of it.”

“If there’s anything I know, it’s to never bet against Hermione Granger. I’ll hold you up to this, don’t think I won’t,” Draco replied cheekily. Once more, she thanked Merlin and God and the stars that this person walking beside her was her friend. He was intelligent, and had a crafty mind that he always took the opportunity to exercise. He had the arrogance and confidence that Hermione lacked, and after their second meeting ever, when she’d saved him from sinking into a bog near the edge of the nearby woods, he trusted her implicitly. They just worked together, understood each other, and had years of shared moments and adventures. Just as he trusted her, she trusted him – how could she not, when he went against the doctrines he still believed in a bit just for her sake?

When they arrived at her house, Draco untangled his hand from hers.

“I can’t come in. Father has an appointment with the Minister, and I have to be there,” he said sulkily.

“Fudge does seem like an idiotic sycophant,” she agreed, feeling sympathy for him. Her parents were amazing, letting her read or do experiments in her room when their work colleagues came over.  Once again she was reminded how much wealth and pureblood traditions came with their downfalls, the least of them being a mother who showed her affection through material goods, and a distant father who seemed to care more about an heir rather than a son.

“Yes, and it’s all boring and depressing – almost as bad as whenever the news comes on the telly thing.”

“Well, at least you get the inside scoop on politics. That has to be worth it, right?”

“Only because you think so. Otherwise, it would just be even more pointless!”

“Stop whining. Let me know if they discuss the new werewolf bill that that odious pink woman you’ve told me about is passing.”

“Fine. You and your bleeding-heart sensibilities. It’s not even like you know any werewolves personally, and therefore have an obligation to fight for them. You want to campaign for house-elves, of all things!”

“It’s slavery, and you know very well how I feel about that. As someone who continues to perpetuate that tradition, we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

Draco smirked at her, probably coming up with all sorts of witty replies. Instead, though, he just leaned in and whispered, “By the way, I reckon – this summer would be perfect to finish The Project. Especially since we’ll be going to Hogwarts, and will have to employ  _ some _ measure of discretion.”

“As soon as that professor comes, and we go to Diagon Alley, you’re on. It will be wicked!”

“And Uncle Sev finally promised to tell us about his muffling charm, though we might not get it right away. Here,” he finished, handing her a book. “I have no idea what it was doing in the library, but I found it at the Manor. Maybe it was meant as a sick joke? Honestly, I have no idea – but I asked Uncle Sev, and he said the book was a mostly reliable one.”

Looking down at the green cover, and flipping it over to see the back, Hermione smiled. It was an introductory guide for new witches and wizards.

“There might be some things in there that I never mentioned. You have any questions, contact me with the mirrors.” The mirrors had been a gift from Professor Snape – two-way enchanted mirrors that proved very useful for secret communications and meetings.

“Will do. Goodnight, Draco! Owl me with the details of when you’re going to Diagon Alley. We can try and time it, so that we can meet up in between errands.”

“Goodnight,” Draco said, and walked down the street, the trench coat he’d affected for when in Muggle public fluttering behind him. She knew that when he ducked under a nearby copse of trees, he’d be calling for Dobby to bring him to his room. Hermione always had a fond spot for Dobby, and always tried her best to mitigate the damage the Malfoys did to him.

It was surprising, she mused as she let herself in and made her way up the stairs, that Draco’s parents had never caught on about his frequent disappearances. But it really was quite simple; as long as he attended all the required functions, showed up to dinner, and acted his typical spoiled way, his parents would have no reason to suspect a thing. With Professor Snape knowing of their friendship, and approving in his own sneaky-Slytherin way, the excuses for being out of the Manor were easily made. Hermione knew that his parents loved him in their own way, and that he loved them as well (he had an especially soft spot for his mother) – but that he was angry at them in a way. They never noticed his frequent disappearances, after all, and the way that her parents treated her (and him too, really) was much different from what he had back home. 

“At least he knows what unconditional love and parental concern are, even if it doesn’t come from his own parents,” Hermione reasoned, taking books and Draco’s grandfather’s wand out of her book bag. Thankfully, Draco had managed to enchant it so that it was always light, or else she’d probably pull something in her back. That night, she eyed the snowflake pendant around her neck; Draco had a matching one, and after reading about some really advanced charm in one of Professor Snape’s old textbooks, she had an idea.

On the third day, when Hermione and her parents were just finishing breakfast, a knock sounded on the door. It was sharp, and immediately she knew that it was the representative from Hogwarts.

For a moment, they all sat there, frozen, and then her mum cleared her throat and stood up.

“Take care of the dishes, Dan, okay?” she murmured, and Hermione worked to rearrange her face to an expression of innocence and curiosity.

The door opened to an imposing woman; she wore green robes, had square spectacles perched on her face, and grey hair pulled into a tight bun. With a smile, her mum invited the professor in, who looked around at the perfectly normal drawing room with curiosity.

When she started speaking, Hermione realized exactly who she was. 

“My name is Minerva McGonagall. I am here about your daughter, Hermione. You might have received a letter from the school I teach at – Hogwarts. The procedure was a bit off this year – normally, someone from the school comes with the letter, but something went wrong. Anyhow, I am here because your daughter is a witch.”

As Professor McGonagall continued to explain things to her appropriately shocked and curious parents, Hermione worked on stifling her laughter. Professor Snape often complained about his colleagues, when he was in a miserly mood, and had mentioned Minerva as someone whom he always engaged in friendly competition with. Chess matches in the staff room, bets on the Sorting and the winning of the Quidditch Cup… Somehow, Hermione hadn’t linked Minerva to the person he’d told her would come to her house. 

She walked up to Minerva – Professor McGonagall, she really ought to remember that – and shook her hand, deciding to bombard her with all sorts of questions. Her parents really ought to win medals, because they acted exactly like two parents who’d found out their daughter was a witch, and who were willing to support their daughter as she went off into this new world. Finally, when the professor finished with giving them a date for when she’d take all the muggleborn students to Diagon Alley, Hermione smiled to herself; she really did love having inside knowledge. 

“Thank you so much, Professor McGonagall!” Hermione said truthfully. “I can’t wait until September 1 st !”

“It always is a pleasure to welcome eager new students into Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall replied with her Scottish brogue. 

“Well, that’s done and over with,” mum sighed as the door closed behind the professor.  

“Thank you for not saying anything,” Hermione replied, hugging her mum tightly. 

“What, and get you and Draco into trouble?”

“Exactly. We’re just the sort of liberal-minded parents to keep a couple of important secrets safe,” dad replied, joining the hug.

“I have to let Draco know when we’re going to Diagon Alley, so that he can try to convince his parents to come on the same day,” she said after a minute, extracting herself and bounding up to her room, leaving her parents with some information leaflets Professor McGonagall had given them.

After reading through  _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5  _ once more, Hermione tried what Professor Snape had called first-year spells. Though the wand of Draco’s grandfather wasn’t tuned to her, and probably resented being used by a mudblood, it responded to her well enough, and she practiced simple repairing and levitation spells. 

“ _ Wingardium leviosa!” _ she chanted, making a Princess Leia action figure float.

Finally, the cue she was waiting for finally came. “Granger!” an aristocratic voice drawled from the ornate mirror by her bedside table. With a grin, she rushed to it, and immediately told him all about the visit. “So we’re on for Diagon Alley?” he asked, a grin that spelled trouble on his face.

“Definitely. Just don’t try to act like a prat the whole time – you might just end up scaring away someone who might turn out to be just a good a friend as I am!” A sigh was her only answer.


	6. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a certain meeting at a robe shop goes...slightly differently.

Draco Malfoy was terribly happy.

In fact, he was so happy, that had he not been a Malfoy, he wouldn’t have said no to participation in one of those choreographed dancing and singing scenes from the Disney films Hermione made him watch.

He was walking into Madam Malkin’s, his parents off getting his things. He’d only be able to meet Hermione later in the day, as she was stuck with all the other mudbloods (muggleborns, whatever). Immediately, Madam Malkin saw him, and started to fawn over him. Affecting a bored countenance (see, he could learn new complicated words too!), he took out a piece of parchment where Mother had listed all of the robes he’d need for the coming year. Normally, he’d be annoyed at that kind of treatment, especially since he could practically hear Hermione’s sniff of disapproval at favoritism and obvious boot-licking.

“Here you go, Mr. Malfoy. Up on that stool; we’ll get you sorted out right and proper,” she said in a voice that quite honestly, made his skin crawl.

However, Hermione Granger was a mudblood, and was going to Hogwarts – so yes, he was rather in a happy mood. As he stood upon a stool with robes being pinned around him, he reflected on this miraculous turn of events. He’d always tried to keep just how much he wished she’d been born a witch from her, because the first thing he’d done was promise to accept Hermione just the way she was, even if all his life he’d been told that people like her were beneath him. But the truth is, however much the thought of Hogwarts, making other friends, learning magic and seeing Uncle Severus more often excited him – he’d really been dreading September 1st of 1991.

After all, the one person who he trusted with his life, his secrets, his hopes and dreams and unfiltered conversations wouldn’t get to go. The one person who came up with ingenious experiments, who helped him study advanced materials, and always corrected him from the textbooks, who taught him about her confusing world (he might not hate Muggles and mudbloods, but sometimes he thought his father had the right of it, staying away from the Muggle world) and let him teach her about his. She learned fencing with him, told him how the old man who lived across from her had said a proper punch should be thrown, danced with him when he needed to practice for the constant pureblood balls and parties.

Draco knew a few facts about his life, that he believed in implicitly: Father was always right, and if he wasn’t, it couldn’t show at all; Mother hated mudbloods, because her sane sister had been stolen by one – and Professor Snape didn’t hate mudbloods, but hated talking about them; the Doctors Granger were terrifying people who seemed to like him, and treated him as they treated their daughter; and Hermione Granger was brilliant, stubborn, a know-it-all, just as much as a bleeding-heart liberal as her parents – and she was born to be a witch. That had been the most unfair thing, that Hermione Granger didn’t have magic, that she would never truly know his world, no matter how much he shared with her. Now, however, that was all changed.

She had magic, and she was going to Hogwarts with him. Suddenly, the next seven years were full of exciting possibilities, and it was all he could do to not start jumping up and down with glee like she often did. This was the problem with feeling that much joy, Draco noted wryly to himself. It was hard to properly express it, especially if one were a Malfoy.

The bell tinkled from the front, which meant someone else had come in for robes. As much as Hermione meant to him – and they’d had a candid conversation about it last night, over the mirrors – it would be nice to have another friend. Just one; perhaps a boy, with whom he could do things that he couldn’t necessarily do with Hermione. Even better – someone he would share a dorm with for seven years. He was terrible at making real friends, though, so the possibility was quite nil. Both he and Hermione were doomed to be social outcasts in their own right; oh well, at least they had each other.

Then, a young boy – his age, staring Hogwarts most likely – was ushered in the back, and Draco saw his opportunity. He was a Malfoy, after all.

“Hullo,” he started. “Hogwarts too?” Draco was gratified when the black-haired green-eyed boy nodded and said yes, and continued. “My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street looking at wands. Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms…” Draco went on as the boy continued to make noises of assent. “Have _you_ got your own broom?” he asked.

“No,” said the unknown boy, and then Draco was struck with a terrible thought. He stopped talking for a moment, and really took in the sight of the boy in front – and immediately recoiled (internally, of course. He had impeccable composure, thank you very much). It wasn’t the large, old, _Muggle_ clothes that caught his eyes, or the standoffish way he was standing – no, it was the look on his face as he stared at Draco. Hermione had that exact look whenever those terrible Muggle bullies who apparently were the stupidest people on earth, and who could never leave her alone, started to go on about their superiority. _As if_. That always made his anger boil, and he couldn’t do anything, because of the Restriction of Underage Magic – and of course, Hermione’s sensibilities (she wasn’t against violence, really, or self-defence, but against unfair retaliation – “You have to be better than them, Draco!” she always said). This unknown boy, who’d he’d hoped could be a potential friend, thought him no more than a rich bully – just like those who put that uncertain and heartbroken look in his best friend’s eye. This immediately caused hatred and disgust to rise up in him.

 _Must proceed cautiously,_ he warned himself. He decided to test his theory, though he was pretty sure he’d been right.

“Play Quidditch at all?” he asked tentatively. When the boy said no, with a perplexed look in his eye to go along with the disgusted expression on his face, Draco added, “You have no idea what Quidditch is, or why you’d _want_ to have a broom, don’t you?”

The mix of surprise and cautiousness and disapproval and – was that fear – told Draco he’d struck gold, figuratively speaking. Oh no. He had to fix this, fast! He wanted a friend, of course, but most importantly – he didn’t want to be like those _idiot_ Muggles who caused Hermione so much pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, interrupting his previous unbroken monologue. “I’m acting like a bit of a spoiled prat, aren’t I? I don’t often talk to people my age, and I suppose I assumed, wrongly, you were the type to be impressed by my wealth and obvious privilege. My best friend keeps telling me how I have to be less of a little brat no one wants to become acquainted with.”

“Must be nice, having a friend,” the boy muttered under his breath, and then jerked up when he realized he’d said that out loud.

  
“It is. You know what? Let’s start over. I’m a pureblood wizard, which means magic has been in my family for generations, translating to the fact that I know a lot about the wizarding world. If you had any questions.” Hit with a stroke of inspiration – surely, whoever he was, knew this reference? “Maybe we can start over? I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy,” he said with relish, not bothering to hold out his hand (as was pureblood custom). This boy was a mudblood, or at least had been raised in the Muggle world, and from Draco’s rather limited worldview, it was obvious he wasn’t cherished as Draco was. And that he clearly hated bullies for what was most likely good reason. He didn’t want his offer of friendship to be rejected before he tried to fix the damage he’d inadvertently caused.

As he’d hoped, the boy snickered.

“Find my name funny, do you?” he drawled nonchalantly.

“It’s just…It’s like Bond, isn’t it?”

“The British Intelligence spy?” he asked innocently, and smirked when the boy nodded. “I know. It’s why I do it,” he confided, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “I especially love it when the person I’m introducing myself to has no idea of the reference I’m making, and I usually spend the rest of the meeting humming the theme song in my head.”

“I haven’t seen much of the films – only one, the _Goldfinger_ one. But yeah, I reckon anybody who’s not a baby knows who 007 is.”

“Ooh – Goldfinger’s a good one. My best friend has this obsession with that _Connery_ actor, which I do not pretend to understand at all, but it’s better than being enamored with Lockhart. I suppose. Gilderoy Lockhart’s a famous author and adventurer in the wizarding world, but I’ve read some of his books, and I swear he’s an absolute _fraud_. Half of the spells he mentions don’t even exist, or work properly in the real world.”

“Like you implied before, I dunno much about this world,” the boy admitted, the small shared moment of excitement gone.

“Well, first off, are you a mud-muggleborn?” he asked, barely restraining himself from saying the word. This person, whoever he was – and so far, he seemed to be a pretty interesting fellow – was no Hermione, and starting off this possible friendship (if it could be salvaged from his completely stupid miscalculation) by insulting him, even if he didn’t know it was an insult to most people yet, was not the impression he wanted to make.

“Both my parents were wizards, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his tone noticeably cooler.

“No, I didn’t really mean it like that. It’s just, I wondered how much you knew about the wizarding world. If you were a – a – muggleborn, then I reckon you wouldn’t know much – and I was just wondering where you were at. I’d love to answer any questions you might have. Least I can do to make up for my earlier moment of stupidity. I’m not always a careless, spoiled brat who only cares about fancy toys, you know. I have _depth_. I do!” he exclaimed at the look of incredulity the other boy was gifting him with.

“If you say so, _Malfoy_.” After a moment, the boy spoke again. “My parents were wizards, but they both died when I was a baby; I was raised with my aunt and uncle, who are Muggles, and never told me anything about magic.”

“Well, that sucks,” Draco said bluntly, yet still feeling awful for the fact that this boy didn’t even have the level of parenting he did. His parents might be distant, as was the pureblood way, but they cared about him, and made sure he knew everything important about the wizarding world and magic.  However, he knew apologizing for something like that only pissed people off, and made everything awkward. Apparently, this boy shared those feelings, because after a moment of shock, he started to chuckle softly.

“Yeah, it does. You said…you knew about magic...and the wizarding world?”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I? First off, Hogwarts. It’s a castle, in Scotland somewhere, and a student when arriving at the school, is Sorted into one of the four dorms. Don’t ask me how – Father won’t tell me; wants me to still experience a bit of mystery. It’s not dangerous, or too much of a test, I don’t think.

“Each dorm represents specific characteristics – Gryffindor is the House of the brave (or, as my godfather likes to say, the House where the _boisterous_ and the hot-headed and arrogant go – the popular people of the school, if you like); Hufflepuff is the House of the loyal and hardworking (though most people think that Hufflepuff is full of duffers); Ravenclaw – House of wit and intelligence; and Slytherin, the House of the ambitious, cunning, and clever (which is where I’m going to end up). The thing to know about Slytherin, is that it’s the least popular of the Houses. It has a bad reputation – lots of Dark wizards come from there, you see, like the Dark Lord – what Voldemort’s followers called him,” he said, barely managing to get the name out.

Uncle Sev hated it when he said that name, but had insisted that he and Hermione knew how to say it without flinching. “They say there isn’t a wizard who went bad who wasn’t Sorted in Slytherin. I think that’s a load of bollocks. Yes, Slytherin has a well-deserved Dark reputation, and yes, that is where a lot of the bigoted and prejudiced purebloods (I’ll expand on that later, if you want) end up. But saying that all Slytherins are evil, especially the newly-Sorted children, it’s like…” How to think of a comparison? Oh yes, the German dictator Hermione always compared Grindelwald and the Dark Lord to. “It’s like saying that all the Germans, especially the children, during the Second War – Second World War? – were just as bad as the Nazis. It was the Nazis, right?” He was good with proper history, but the Muggle bits always threw him off.

The boy looked at him with a raised eyebrow, but Draco was alright with that, since he seemed more at ease. Not disapproving of Draco, and not hiding from the world.

“Apologies, again. I’m very passionate about this. Anyhow, Slytherin does get a bad reputation – though our Head of House, the potions teacher, favours us, which helps somewhat. You get Sorted where you want to go, I think. It’s up to you, and what your parents want for you, so I wouldn’t be too worried about it. The other Houses are all good choices, too. I suppose. I’m admittedly biased, but if you want the opinion opposite mine, there are all manner of books about the greatness of Gryffindor House, and of the other Houses as well.” He stopped to catch his breath, flushing slightly. At this rate, he’d become a second Hermione Granger! She who was passionate about _everything_ , including house-elves, of all things.

“No, it’s okay.” The boy took a deep breath, and looked intently at Draco for a moment. “I…know what it’s like to be judged from the get-go, for something you don’t really have any control over. Your comparison was spot-on, I thought. Whatever House I end up in, I hope I won’t ever be one of those people who judge people based on the perception of the majority.”

“That’s a lot of big words,” Draco teased. It was nice to know, however, that this potential friend seemed at least well-read, and made intelligent remarks. There were many reasons, after all, why he preferred a Muggle – no, a mudblood, Hermione was a witch! – girl to the company of Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson. Pansy was alright, when she wasn’t simpering all over him, but she didn’t care much about _learning_ , just about what advantages it brought her.  

“I read, sometimes,” was the only thing he got in response, but Draco felt a little bubble of happiness that he’d been trusted with that tidbit.

“I know what it’s like too, though I figure my situation’s the opposite of yours. You see, I’m a Malfoy, which means something in the wizarding world. From the minute someone lays eyes on me, and hears that name, they already know who I am – a perfect copy of my Father, who I care for very much, but who probably isn’t the nicest or most decent man in the universe, you know? I fully admit that I share many views my father does, and that I am a spoiled prat – like you just saw earlier – but I can tell you with utmost sincerity that I am _not_ my father. Not even close.”

“Secret rebellion?” the boy said cheekily. Even more perfect! Not only did he seem decently-read, but he could pick up subtext, which Uncle Sev said most people, especially Gryffindors, couldn’t.

“You have no idea,” Draco replied, trying to keep the hysterical laughter inside. Sometimes, his life felt like one of those films Hermione made him watch – not the magic part, but the crazy adventures.

He wasn’t successful in keeping his composure. With that, they both broke out into almost-silent giggles. Those green eyes blinked at him from behind thick lenses (the boy had horrid broken spectacles, but Draco had learned to keep his silence about someone’s outward appearance, at least until he got to know that person), and seemed to come to a decision.

“I have to apologize, too. I took one look at you, especially when you started talking, and wrote you off as just another spoiled bully like my cousin Dudley – but then you realized what you were doing, and apologized, and knew James Bond, and started telling me about this crazy new world. Which means, you aren’t all bad.”

“None of us are saints,” Draco replied, pleasantly surprised. As a future Slytherin, Draco was able to notice subtle clues, and it was clear as day that this boy was apologizing for judging him, and most likely wanted to start over.

“No need to sound so…unsurprised! Anyhow…I know you already have a friend, but…”

“I’m actually in the market for an additional friend, and I think that someone who understands James Bond references, accepts my apology and apologizes in return, and knows what it’s like for everyone to take a look at you and decide exactly who you are…is exactly what I’m looking for. You interested? I have to warn you, I’m possessive, and so is my best friend. I’m not always the nicest, but I try to be honest about that, and I _do_ have a conscience.” It was Hermione Granger-shaped, which in Draco’s opinion was the best sort of conscience. “And I like to think I’m loyal, too, no matter what anyone says about Malfoys.”

“I happen to be in the market for a friend, as well, as it turns out. You see, I’m starting this new school in this crazy new world, and someone who makes James Bond references, pays attention to people enough that they can tell they’ve offended someone, and apologizes about it, and doesn’t make me feel awful about parents who I wish I knew but never had the chance to…is exactly what I’ve always been hoping for. You see, I’m not very popular (as a person); I’m always the last to be picked at sports, and my best talent is evading my cousin and his cronies. But I like learning new things, I’m quick on my feet, and I like to think I’m loyal as well, no matter what Uncle Vernon says about my no-good lazy parents and how I’m exactly like them. Which apparently wasn’t even true in the first place? You interested?”

“Yes,” Draco all but shouted, and finally held out his hand. This was…momentous!!!

The boy took his hand, and seemed to share the sentiment.

“I also know what it’s like, not having any friends,” he added. “If it hadn’t been for Hermione – the aforementioned best friend – I’ve been all alone, surrounded by bootlickers and the like. So would Hermione. We saved each other, really, from loneliness…And I don’t know about her, but I don’t mind saving you from loneliness either. Not that I’m some sort of Gryffindor knight in shining armor, mind! I happen to have a healthy sense of preservation, thanks.”

“I would never make the mistake of assuming that,” the boy said solemnly with eyes filled with laughter. “That sounds…really nice. Do you think…we can exchange letters over the summer?”

“Of course! Let me tell you how we do things the wizarding way.” While waiting for Madam Malkin, who, lucky for them, was taking quite the time (what exactly was happening in the front?) Draco started telling him all he knew.

“I can owl you using Corvus, and that way we can keep in touch. You have to tell me your name, though. I mean, if we’re to be friends.”

Just then, Madam Malkin came in, and finally started on their robes – which meant their discussion was cut a bit short. Draco told him all about Quidditch – otherwise known as the best sport ever, better than the foot game, and the bane of Hermione Granger’s existence. From the gleam in the other boy’s eye, Draco figured that he was a Quidditch fanatic-in-the-making. It would be quite nice to have someone who shared his passion for the sport. Yes, Draco Malfoy was in a great mood!

Finally, when Madam Malkin finished, the boy took a deep breath, and said, “Look. I don’t care what my name is – I’m just an 11-year-old boy excited to go to Hogwarts, who just made his first real friend. Okay? I didn’t even know any of this until yesterday – and I reckon you of all people, from what you’ve told me, understands that I’m…just me. ” Draco nodded in assent.

“Name’s Potter. Harry Potter. And I’ll hold you to your promise!” With that, he exited the shop with a rather large man (was it that gamekeeper at Hogwarts, Hagrid or something-other?), and left Draco gobsmacked. _Thank Merlin for Hermione_ , was all he could think. He’d almost driven his second friend, who happened to be _very famous_ – and didn’t even seem to like it, which would stand him in good stead with Hermione – by being a prat!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone, once again, for all the lovely comments and kudos! :)


	7. A Summer To Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry Potter has the best summer of his life, and learns about the Wizarding world.

Harry Potter was the happiest, luckiest person on Earth.

At least, that’s what he felt like for the entire rest of the summer – which was quite a huge difference from his usual reality. Harry was not regretting this fact one bit. He had a nice room, all his own, with a nice sturdy trunk full of spell books and gleaming new school materials, a beautiful owl named Hedwig, and two letters on his desk – from his friends. That was the best thing, he found, even  _ better _ than going to a school of  _ magic _ . 

Harry Potter had two friends; a pureblood blond-haired boy named Draco Malfoy, who was a bit of a prat but so interesting and funny and charismatic and  _ real _ , and his best friend (he’d never met her, but Draco talked about her all the time), a Muggleborn know-it-all witch named Hermione Granger. The distinctions between a pureblood, a muggleborn, and a half-blood (someone like him) were important, Draco had told him in that first conversation. Then, of course, when they’d started sending letters back and forth, he’d expanded a bit, about the Dark Lord – “probably best you don’t call him that, since you’re the one who supposedly defeated him, and your parents were amongst those who fought against him,” Draco had written – and his followers.

Harry supposed he ought to have been upset at Draco, given that his father and his godfather had both been Death Eaters – “they really were bad, you know – never make the mistake of thinking otherwise – but he was friends with a mudblood – “I let Draco call me that,” Hermione wrote in her first letter to him, a few weeks after Diagon Alley, “because to me it’s a compliment (in a way), but by and large it’s a very derogatory term. Mustn’t call anyone that, especially if your mum was one too.” – and from what his two friends said, Draco’s godfather was decent people. 

_ He was never really a Death Eater in the ‘proper sense,’ I think. Not to say that he didn’t bow to the Dark Lord, and aimed to please him, once upon a time, and that he didn’t commit any – atrocities – but it was never about the blood purity for him. He’s a half-blood, you see, like you, and he had a mudblood friend once who he never stopped caring about, even though they ended their friendship. It was more about the study of the Dark Arts, for him, and a place to belong. Hogwarts isn’t very kind to Slytherins, you see, and he says that it’s worse when you don’t even have a powerful pureblood family to back you. Not that there aren’t any half-bloods in Slytherin, though I think the mudbloods keep on the “down-low,” but it used to be worse during the Dark Lord’s rise. Now it’s worse, but for a different reason. The Headmaster’s biased; my godfather owes him his allegiance, he told me once, but I can tell he hates him. When Uncle Severus hates someone like that, it’s for a good reason. You might not ever like him, or forgive him for his actions – he doesn’t seem to like you very much, either, when I mentioned my new friend to him a week ago – but he’s loyal, brilliant, and one of Hermione’s role models _ , Draco had written.

He figured that anyone Hermione Granger, who according to Draco was the patron saint of the underdog, the outcasts, and the lost boys and girls, looked up to, couldn’t be all bad. Hermione seemed of the opinion that most people, apart from psychopaths who didn’t reign themselves in or just horrible people with no conscience (like the Dursley’s, Harry felt) weren’t all good or evil. “It’s just shades of grey, I reckon, and what you do afterwards, and why you do it.”

It hurt a bit, realizing that this new world still had some of the same ugly bits as the world he’d grown up in – different names, but same thing (blood purity, judging a book by their cover – Slytherins, and apparently those who ‘stood out’ too much). But he was good at surviving, and really preferred to know this beforehand, before his rosy view of the wizarding world was betrayed in the worst way. 

That made it easier for him, though, because he decided to learn everything he could, and because it was something he was used to. Learning the rules, keeping his head down, surviving. Survival was a talent, a quote he’d read in a book once had said, and surviving was a talent Harry Potter was very good at. Besides, he had friends who were happy to write reams and reams of ‘embossed’ parchment (Draco) and light blue stationary paper (Hermione) about all their knowledge and observations, who made dry remarks that caused him to double up with laughter on his bed, and who genuinely seemed to care about what he had to say.

One day, toward the end of the summer – Harry had a calendar on his wall, where he checked off all the days until September 1 st – Corvus flew through his window, dropped a letter on his bed, and whooshed out. Draco’s owl was a temperamental thing that bit his fingers and never stuck around, but Harry liked him anyway. He had character, just like Draco himself.

_ Dear Harry, _

_ How are things with the Muggles? Are they still ignoring you? Thank you for your lengthy and convoluted explanation on com-comptuter games, but I believe I still don’t understand a thing. Honestly, doesn’t seem much fun at all, but to each their own, I suppose. We’re throwing our annual summer gathering, and all the preparations are giving me a headache. I have a simpering, shrieking Pansy to look forward to, weak wine with no proper taste, and the frankly disgusting fawning everyone will be doing to everyone else. Joy. _

_ Anyhow, I reckon we should meet, face to face, sometime before the 1 _ _ st _ _. Hermione is very eager to finally meet you in person, though I can tell that you’ve already charmed her through letters alone. She had a bit of a freak-out moment when I told her I’d somehow befriended Harry Potter, but she’s not like that really, and with every letter crows about how she was right that all the books written about you were rubbish. She likes being right, just a warning.  _

_ Can you somehow get to Covent Gardens, or will the Muggles try to lock you up inside? If you’re allowed free reign to go outside, I say that you walk to that park you mentioned, write me the address, and the Doctors Granger can pick you up. That way, the  _ Muggles _ won’t know a thing. I’d have said to summon the Knight Bus, but I don’t know if it counts as underage magic or not, and I figure it’s best not to risk it before even getting to Hogwarts. _

_ Must go, Dobby is jumping around to get my attention. Hermione will give me her “I’m disappointed in you” expression if he gets punished because of my tardiness. _

_   
_ _ Sincerely, _

_ Draco _

The words made a jolt of excitement jump in his stomach. He had been wanting to meet Hermione Granger ever since that blond boy spoke so passionately about her at Madam Malkin’s, and through his letters with her that desire had only grown. Once again, he thanked his lucky stars – or Merlin, like Draco always seemed to do – that not only he had a friend, but a future Slytherin. Even from the few weeks they’d known each other, Harry knew that Draco was someone who knew how to plan for contingencies, who always had a dozen backups, who had a twisty mind – and most importantly, used it to benefit him, Harry. Which was a terribly bubbly feeling.

However, though he really wanted to go to Covent Gardens to see Draco and Hermione, the thought of meeting the Doctors Granger (as Draco always referred to them in his letters) absolutely terrified him. Harry, growing up under the such tender care of the Dursley family, was used to being the freak, the undesirable one. To the rest of the world, he was a delinquent. While it hurt, having teachers believing Dudley over him, and people looking at him like he was worthless, he was used to it, and it brought freedom in a way. Now, however, he did care about what Hermione’s parents thought… which made him want to crawl into his bed, pull the covers over his head, and pretend he was safely back in his cupboard.

But he had Dudley’s second bedroom now, and was going to Hogwarts in September. Draco had told him that he was famous, and that he was in  _ books _ , which all meant he had to get used to attention. He had to be brave. He tore out a piece of paper from one of his new notebooks, and scrawled a response, feeling the familiar hint of embarrassment when he compared his handwriting to Draco’s perfect penmanship. Draco didn’t mind his horrible handwriting, though, or the spelling errors he made sometimes, so that always balanced out the embarrassed feeling.

“Well, it’s done,” he said to himself, watching Hedwig soar away with the letter saying he’d meet the Grangers on August 25th. 

Two days later, he was at the park, dressed in his best clothes (which were still Dudley’s hand-me-downs, but he didn’t look like he was swimming in them) and the soft jacket Draco had sent him as a belated-birthday present. His first real birthday present! At the agreed-upon time, a nice car (Uncle Vernon would be jealous, he thought) rolled up to him, a waving girl with bushy hair in the back seat, along with an uncomfortable-looking Draco Malfoy.

Biting his lip, he smiled at the man behind the steering wheel - one of the Doctors Granger - and entered the car, squeezing in beside Draco.

“Hi!” Hermione said cheerfully from the other side of a now-beaming Draco. “I’m Hermione! It’s so nice to meet you! Have you ever been to Covent Gardens before?”

“Um...No…” he stammered meekly, suddenly overcome with shyness. What were you supposed to say to one’s friends?

“Did you know that Covent Gardens actually…” Hermione babbled on as her father drove them away from Surrey, occasionally turning to face him, and jabbing Draco in the arm whenever he pulled a face.

“She always gets like this when nervous,” Draco whispered. “She might seem a bit much at first, but she’s the person you always want to have on your side.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Harry whispered back, a feeling of excitement and hopefulness blooming in his chest. Sitting here in a nice car, with a dentist driving him and two others - who were his friends - to Covent Gardens...was absolutely surreal. Harry loved it. He didn’t complain when Draco’s bony elbows bit into his side when he got a bit too enthusiastic about his disdain for Muggle things he saw no need for, and he attentively listened to Hermione’s babble, trying to follow her university-level discourse. 

Doctor Granger dropped them off in a bustling courtyard, giving Hermione one of those portable phones Dudley would have loved to get his hands on.

“Stick together, be safe, call if you need anything. And,” he continued, lowering his voice, “Hermione, Draco, use your magic - you too, Harry - if anything happens. Okay? You’re old and mature enough to go without parental supervision for a few hours - I’ll be doing some shopping in the city, so I’ll be nearby - but don’t go taking unnecessary stupid risks. This isn’t Colerne. Remember that. Love you,” he finished, kissing Hermione on the cheek.

Once he was gone, they all grinned at each other. “Let’s go! We can eat lunch, and then...bookstores!” Hermione squealed, making Draco purse his mouth in what Harry recognized as a fake pout. Hermione grabbed their hands and dragged them over to a nearby little restaurant, 

There, sitting down at a nice table, and eating a big sandwich - the second-best meal he’d ever eaten, really - Harry suddenly couldn’t speak. There was a lump in his throat. He was out with two people who considered him his friends, with a really nice meal, no Dudley and his gang, and he didn’t know what to say.

“So, you’re Harry Potter!” Hermione started, squinting at him. “I’ve read all about you, of course - yes, you’re in quite a lot of books, you know - but I learnt a long time ago that books aren’t always trustworthy. So don’t worry - all I know comes from Draco, and whatever his faults -” there she mock-glared at him while he looked aloof - “he’s a rather good judge of people. I really like the idea of having another friend, you know.”

“Me too!” Harry blurted out, then blushed. “I mean, I like the idea of having friends.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that we all want to be friends, here comes the most important question. What do you know of magic? Our kind of magic, not the stupid Muggle version of it.”

“Wait - first, Draco, we need to start with the wizarding world itself! He told us that he had no idea about the wizarding world until his letter, remember? First, the wizarding world, and then experimentations with magic. Priorities!”

“Priorities!” Draco scuffed, but looked guiltily back at him. “I know I’ve told you a bit about our world...but I forget, sometimes, you still don’t know much. Hermione knows everything - maybe even more than me - because she’s known about the wizarding world for a long time. Have at it, Granger,” Draco said.

“Right then! First, three books you should read before September 1 st ;  _ Hogwarts, A History, A History of Magic, _ and the pureblood family directory book.”

“It’s not just a directory! The book’s called  _ Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy _ . You should read it because it contains information about the Potters; now, while they were never in the same category as the Malfoys or Blacks when it comes to affluent pureblood standing, and was always known for its...liberal and blood-traitor views, Potter is an Ancient and Most Noble House. Your family has a seat on the Wizengamot - ask Hermione for clarification, rule number two - and while it’s run by a proxy now, you will inherit that, and a substantial family fortune. Better to know now than finding out from...unreliable people.”

“He means those who are biased, and might think that you’re better off not knowing - for whatever reason - about certain things concerning you.”

“I’m afraid I’ve turned Hermione into a bit of a - conspiracy theory-ist?”

“A conspiracy theorist, Draco. I just think - and I know you mentioned in your letters that you consider Hagrid, the gamekeeper, a friend - that it’s odd you know so little. You’re the Boy-Who-Lived, which sounds really stupid, but the wizarding world really believes that. Why weren’t you contacted by Dumbledore, or friends of your parents beforehand? Why Hagrid, when it’s the Deputy Head that delivers all the letters to the - the - muggleborns, and takes the time to explain everything? I just think that you ought to be able to have the full picture before getting on the Hogwarts Express…”

In the face of all this...caring - for that was what this was - Harry felt even more choked, but he smiled. At this point, he didn’t care if he looked totally bonkers. “I’ll read those books, promise.”

“I can give you a copy of  _ Nature’s Nobility _ before you have to go off to those Muggles. It’s very useful, and does show how all the pureblood lines are interconnected.”

“It’s all the inbreeding. Draco told you about the Dark Lord, and blood purity and all that?” Hermione continued when Harry nodded. “Well, in order to keep the family lines ‘pure,’ wizards and witches, especially in the past, would try to only marry within the preexisting pureblood families. However, that’s like...a really small gene pool. There are only a few ‘pure’ pureblood lines left, and the ones that are are hopelessly inbred. I’ve told Draco he probably ought to marry at least a half-blood if he doesn’t want to doom his children.”

“What she means is, firstly, it’s hard for pureblood heirs to be conceived these days. I’m the only current heir, and so was my father. Most of the pureblood families only have one children - unless you’re a Weasley, I suppose -  and it’s not due to lack of funds or of trying. And you can tell that some pureblood families - the Goyles and Crabbes, the Carrows - have unpleasant features and low intelligence.”

“Inbreeding, I tell you. I think you’re very lucky that your mother was, well, a muggleborn.”

“What I meant to add, however, that since all the families are interconnected, and Potter is a very old wizarding family - you’re related to a lot of people, even if it’s just distant. For example, we’re cousins, you and I. Very distant - if we wanted to be together (just for this scenario), there would be no problem on the “we’re related” side, but you do have some Black in you. My mother was a Black, and your grandmother, I believe - Dorea Potter - was a Black as well. It’s just, you mentioned that you didn’t have family, blood family anymore, and that’s not entirely true.”

“We’re cousins?” Harry asked in awe.

“Subjectively, yes. Like I said, not too closely related for it to be true inbreeding, but related by blood all the same.”

“That’s...nice.”

“Of course,” Hermione cut in, “blood doesn’t always make family.”

“Obviously,” Harry said. He’d learnt that from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Dursley very early in life.

“Though it’s nice to know that there is blood family, I suppose…”

“You’re babbling,” Draco said, and Hermione shut up with a grateful look. “Well, it seems we’re done eating. I suggest we get up before some Muggles overhear certain things, and lock us up in those horror wards.”

“Wizards really can’t talk, what with Azkaban. There’s not even the death penalty in Britain, anymore - and you just have those monsters guarding people! I’d take a mental asylum over Dementors any day.”

“Dementors?”

“Yes, the guards of the wizarding prison, named Azkaban.” 

Draco waved his hand at Hermione when they went up to the cash, to pay, and Hermione counted out the bills. “My parents said they’d be happy to pay for our lunch,” she said sternly when Harry tried to protest. “Save that Potter fortune for other things, yeah?”

“So what is so terrible about Dementors?” Harry asked as they walked out. He’d thought it might be odd for three children to be wandering about, but no-one gave them a second look.

“Oh, let me tell you,” Hermione started viciously. 

“It offends her humanitarian whatsit sensibilities,” Draco whispered. “Though I agree with her, partly. Dementors are one of the most foul creatures, and while some people might deserve them, not everyone locked up in Azkaban does.”

Harry listened with growing dread as Hermione went on a tirade, secretly agreeing with her. Dementors, their effects, the Kiss...It seemed something out of a horror novel. Witches and wizards and unicorns and even dragons existed, and that was all exciting, but this? 

“Moral of the story. Don’t go near Dementors.”

“Are they not always at the prison?”

“Definitely not,” Draco scoffed.

“It’s how we met...and bonded, shall we say?” Hermione said, fiddling with a necklace Harry realized was the same one that Draco wore.

“There were Dementors in Wiltshire,” Draco said indignantly, as if the world was ending. 

Over the course of the day, where they walked around London, window-shopped, and generally experienced the most fun and ‘normal’ thing Harry had ever done, Harry learnt more about the Ministry (and its incompetence) the amazingness of potions, and a crash course in what even Harry could tell was advanced magic.

“We’ve been generally experimenting, for years, really, and now that I know I’m a witch - ” Harry had heard all about that - “I’ve been doing all sorts of spells and charms and jinxes. In fact, there is something I’ve been working on…”

“We’ve taken to calling it The Project: Hermione had a very interesting idea.”

“I’ve always loved the different ways of magical communication - two-way mirrors, the Floo, even just owls...but Professor Snape told me something years ago that immediately caught my attention. It’s a Protean Charm, and it works a bit like two-way mirrors. A bit like cell phones these days. You enchant something, an object usually, and then you can transmit select messages; what appears on one object will appear on its linked object. You can make it one-sided, or allow for communication between the two - but it means almost anything can be enchanted. I was thinking, for me and Draco, our necklaces. What better way to have clandestine ways of contacting each other than through jewelry that’s either mostly hidden, in Draco’s case, or that’s something I always wear?”

“That sounds...brilliant.”

“I know! Especially since magic doesn’t mesh well with electronics. I know that Professor Snape has a spell that can make Muggle things, like the telly, work in residences where a lot of magic happens, but Hogwarts is completely different. In this case, it means we have to come up with alternative means of communication. The mirrors are great, but a bit unwieldy, and it’s easy to spy on, you know what I mean?”

“So this is all to set up a spy network, the wizarding equivalent of MI5, then?” Harry asked, giddy with the thought they were confiding in him, and finding The Project super exciting as well. 

“Well, why not? Why should we let the Muggles beat us at something?” Draco drawled.

“Children are the ones who are going to set up a wizarding spy network?” Harry ribbed.

“We’re not just children. I’m a Malfoy, you’re Harry Potter - which means you are famous, even if you don’t want to be - and Hermione is Hermione. We could totally do it.”

“The Ministry has the Unspeakables, and some equivalent of “spies,” but I don’t have much faith in the Ministry - whether or not we will  _ actually  _ create a spy/communications network from the tender age of 11 and 12,” Hermione sniffed.

“So, you haven’t done the Protean Charm yet?”

“No, Harry, not yet. It’s extremely complicated seventh-year magic...but I’m working on it. Professor Snape can help, and Draco’s very good at Charms. It’s just going to take a bit of practice. If you want, you can come over to my house, if there’s time before the first, and work on it too? Regardless, I suggest you try as many spells as you can. After first year, the Ministry will monitor underage magic - it wouldn’t matter if you were in a wizarding house, like Malfoy Manor, but your relatives are Muggles - so this is your last chance to practice magic at home without getting a warning.”

“I’d love to,” he replied with feeling.

“Same arrangement, then. I have to warn you, however, about the Doctors Granger.”

“Draco!” Hermione protested, “My parents are absolutely nice, understanding people!”

“That is the point,  _ Granger _ . Her parents are terribly nice and touchy-feely and they’ve let Hermione have free reign for years. It’s very nice and all, but jarring when you’re not used to it!”

“Oh. I see what you mean,” Harry said. He was absolutely terrified of what the Grangers thought of him, and really hoped he’d made a good impression on Hermione’s dad. 

“Speaking of her parents, have I mentioned what the Doctors Granger have taken to calling me?” Draco moaned dramatically, stopping on the sidewalk with a hand on his heart.

“No?” Harry said, confused.

“He says it’s my fault.”

“Of course it is, Hermione!” Draco replied. “How else would a Malfoy get involved in some village play about star-crossed lovers, with a cast of mostly Muggle children????”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m playing Romeo, in Shakespeare’s stupid play!” Draco said, and looked cross when Harry started to laugh. He’d never read the play, but knew about the basics, and imagining Draco dressed in ‘period clothing,’ with muggle parents calling him Romeo, was just too funny!

“He makes a perfect Romeo, child-version,” Hermione added, looking on the verge of laughing herself. “He’s dramatic, and loves pining and moaning, and he looks very dashing. It’s the Malfoy genes. Good for physical appearance, but nothing else.”

“Excuse me!” Draco retorted back, trying to look dignified, but really just an 11-year-old boy trying not to laugh. 

Harry smiled big, so very happy.

“And of course, concerning The Project, we ought to find an object for you, that has significance - Draco and I have our necklaces, but we’ll need something else for us three…” Hermione was saying. 

Harry was so very glad he’d accepted going to Covent Gardens, and that he’d given the pale boy at Madam Malkin’s a second chance. After all, he was going to Hogwarts with his two friends!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you everyone for the kudos and the comments! :)
> 
> As for next week's update, it might be delayed a bit, due to lack of internet access. As soon as I will be able to, the next chapter will be posted. :)


	8. On The Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are introduced to Neville Longbottom, Hermione subconsciously decides to befriend a new acquaintance, and the students of Hogwarts arrive at the castle.

Neville Longbottom was feeling miserable.

Today was September the first; this was the day he’d be going to Hogwarts - and everything had gone wrong from the start. He’d overslept, Great-Uncle Algie had decided today of all days to visit, and now he was on the Hogwarts Express, and had lost his toad. He felt the tears gathering in his eyes, and blinked hard. He wouldn’t give himself and his entire family the satisfaction of blubbering like toddler on top of everything else.

Just as he was about to bash his head on one of the compartment doors in frustration, regardless of the people inside, an odd group of people passed him, chattering about… a bond? There was Draco Malfoy, someone who Neville had met at the old, traditional parties Grandmother made him go to as preparation for his duties as Heir Longbottom, a boy with glasses, green eyes, and black hair, and a girl - definitely muggleborn - with a book in her hands, and extremely bushy hair. 

Neville had been about to go to a compartment that held Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott, people he sort of knew and that Grandmother expected him to socialize with, but those three piqued a curiosity he hadn’t even known still existed. Thoughts of Trevor leaving his mind, he followed the three, dragging his heavy trunk behind him and heaving with the effort. 

“May I...sit in here?” Neville asked awkwardly, when the three had chosen their compartment. Malfoy looked up and raised an eyebrow, mockingly, but said nothing. The black-haired boy shrugged, and turned to the girl. 

“Of course,” she said. 

“Longbottom,” Malfoy drawled. Flushing slightly, Neville tried to hoist his trunk up, but failed miserably, and stubbed his toe. Waiting for the insults and criticism, he was surprised when the unknown boy stood up from beside the girl, and asked if he was alright in a slightly panicked voice. 

“Yeah,” he muttered feebly.

“Well, that’s good,” the girl said. “I’m Hermione Granger. You must be Neville Longbottom. D - Malfoy told me a bit about you. Unless you want to repeat that - I don’t understand why they don’t make featherlight charms a requirement on these trunks! - stand back.”

With that, she whipped out her wand, and said clearly, “ _ Wingardium Leviosa! _ ” His trunk lifted up, and thunked on the shelf. “There,” she said, as if she hadn’t done a spell perfectly.

“I’ve been practicing at home,” she said when she caught his look of surprise. Then, she settled down in between Green-Eyes and Malfoy, taking a book Malfoy held out to her as if this was perfectly normal. While Hermione buried her nose in the brick of a book, Malfoy leaned over and started to discuss the finer points of dueling, referencing quite a bit of history. Neville had never realized that Malfoy, apart from being spoiled, rich, good-looking and liked by his parents, was that...intelligent. 

Great. That was even worse. He was even more of a failure. Wallowing in self-pity, as he watched the three before him interact as if they’d known each other forever, Neville let the tears he’d been holding in fall. Best they learnt what a failure Neville Longbottom was from the beginning.

However, he hadn’t counted on their actual response. When he started sniffling, they all looked up, and it was Hermione who spoke up. “What’s wrong? Is it allergies? Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to intimate that you couldn’t levitate your trunk, or even hoist it up the old-fashioned way, really! I’m just excited to try out magic, that’s all. Did some older student decide to start of the year with some old-fashioned bullying?”

“Breathe, Granger,” Draco hissed, putting his hand on her arm, which seemed to calm down her panic and blabbering. Green-Eyes just looked at him with a question in his eyes, and then turned to Malfoy, who spoke. “Best you tell her, Longbottom,” he said, sounding marginally less condescending than he usually did. “She won’t stop asking and blathering otherwise.”

“It’s...my toad,” Neville said finally, not knowing what else to say. If he talked about everything else, it would just sound pathetic, and as if he wanted pity or something.

“Oh no… Did it die?” the black-haired boy spoke. “I’ve only had Hedwig,” he pointed to the snowy owl in her cage beside him, “for less than a summer, and I would be devastated if anything happened to her…”

“No, not like that,” Neville said, touched by the concern in his voice. “I lost Trevor, on the train, and I can’t find him…”

“Well, at least that’s fixable,” Malfoy said as both Hermione and Green-Eyes (who looked a bit familiar, now that Neville thought about it, though he couldn’t place it) deflated from tension he hadn’t even know they’d had.

“Let me. I need the practice anyway.  _ Accio  _ Neville Longbottom’s toad!” Malfoy spoke clearly, waving his wand. “It might take a while. I’ve only tried this spell two times, and it only worked the one.” Malfoy needn’t have worried, however, because soon enough, Trevor came zooming into his hands. 

“Here,” he handed Trevor over, making a face over the thought of holding a frog, most likely. 

Neville all but gaped, but gratefully grasped Trevor, and put him in his container. Then he settled in to watch the three, who seemed quite at ease, and oblivious of the fact that this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him. 

Neville Longbottom was still miserable, and very apprehensive about Hogwarts, and wanted to be back at home in the greenhouses, but most importantly he was completely baffled by the three children sitting in front of him. 

_ - _

Hermione was having quite a bit of fun today, but it was dampened a bit by the fact that she was certain something was up with Neville Longbottom.

Not that she thought anything was wrong with him! He seemed like a nice person, from what she could tell, and being a target for bullies helped you judge people accurately quite quickly. No, it was the fact that he seemed so shocked and grateful that she’d helped him with his trunk, that Harry had shown compassion, and that Draco had helped find his toad in a very efficient manner. Someone who looked like that when people did basic kindnesses was very worrying. 

What with Draco, and now Harry, Hermione was quite aware that not everyone’s parents were as awesome as hers, and she felt that it was the case with Neville. But she didn’t know him, didn’t have the proof or any evidence from observations, and she doubted he wanted an unknown mudblood prying in his life. So she bit her lip, kept her questions inside, and instead focused on the literature surrounding Time-Turners. (Which was sadly lacking, in her opinion, but she didn’t have access to the Department of Mysteries...so this would have to do).

The day passed quickly, just like the green scenery outside. Soon, the blinds were closed against the night, and everyone had changed into robes. Draco, as a Malfoy, had visibly nicer ones; the clasps on his cloak were fashioned into miniature snakes, his boots were dragonhide, and Hermione knew for a fact that his robes felt like the finest cashmere and cotton. Their faces, however - apprehensive yet excited all at once - were the exact same. Hogwarts was waiting.

Soon, Hermione found herself in a boat with Neville, Harry and Draco, crossing the vast lake and looking at the castle for the first time. Draco’s second-hand stories (the only second-hand things he possessed, apart from his grandfather’s wand and other assorted heirlooms) had not done justice at all. It was breathtaking, and she still couldn’t wrap her head around a castle such as this being an actual schooling institution. Harry was telling Draco about how he’d met Hagrid, who’d greeted him very enthusiastically after they’d disembarked, and Draco remarked about how he’d seen him outside of Madam Malkin’s. 

Honestly, when Draco had first told her the story, she’d had a stitch in her side from laughing at just how  _ Draco  _ it all was, and she’d thought it worthy of the soap operas her parents refused to watch. After she’d quit laughing, however, she realized just how much of a good thing this was, and after all the letter-exchanging, and meeting Harry Potter in the flesh, she had absolutely no complaints about Draco Malfoy unknowingly befriending the famous Harry Potter (who was so much more than his slightly-undeserved fame) in a robe shop. 

As they walked up to the castle, huffing and puffing and hungry and excited all at once, Hermione was fiercely glad for the presence of Draco and Harry on either side of her. Finally experiencing something she’d thought would never happen to her, she was excited, yes, but very nervous too. And whenever she was nervous, she tended to babble, a lot. She recited a list of all the spells she’d tried, first with Draco’s spare wand, and then her own vine one, and then had a little debate with Draco on witch-burning, and when the ghosts popped into the room where all the first-year students were crammed into, she babbled about haunted castles in Britain. When she saw the enchanted ceiling as they all walked into the Great Hall, she quoted from  _ Hogwarts, A History _ , her third-favourite book in the world. Through it all, Draco put up with her, actually listening to her nervous talking, and Harry kept sending shy smiles in her direction.

Finally, it was the Sorting. “I know it’s probably best I’m not in Slytherin, for various reasons,” she whispered to Draco, “but it’s going to hurt a bit, to not be in the same Houses.”

“Whatever happens, I have faith in Hermione Granger able to overcome any obstacle in her way,” Draco muttered back, most likely trying not to think of what his pureblood peers were thinking, him hanging out with what was obviously a mudblood. 

“I can’t say I’ve known you for that long,” Harry said from her other side, squeezing her arm, “but I already know not to bet against you. We’ll be in different Houses, because you’re a - muggleborn, and because we’re three very different people, but we’re still going to be friends. I know it.”

“Whatever happens, Harry, remember that there are two people in this school who care about ‘Just Harry,’ and who are on your side. The wizarding world sees you as a savior, and that’s going to bring fawning, but also hate - fame is a fickle thing and all that. Just remember you’re an 11-year-old boy starting boarding school, and that we’re on your side.”

“I won’t forget, Hermione,” Harry replied, blushing. This, of course, made Hermione want to hit something, because it was clear his family couldn’t be called that at all.  _ We’ll just have to be his family _ , she thought to herself as Professor McGonagall started listing off names. 

“She just might be my Head of House,” she muttered to herself. “Must stop thinking of her as Minerva, the professor who plays chess with Professor Snape - who offered me extra lessons! Breathe, Hermione. Breathe.” 

“Granger, Hermione!” rang out as the clapping for the previous student tapered off. “Good luck!” both Harry and Draco hissed at the same time, which made her smile. “Breathe,” she continued to mutter to herself as she made her way to the stool beside Professor McGonagall. “It’s just the Sorting, it doesn’t mean much except what House colours I’ll be beholden to for the rest of my schooling. Relax.” When she put on the mangy hat, she almost jumped up in fright as it started talking to her - it was using Legilimency! Only years of helping Draco brew illicit potions with Professor Snape kept her still and outwardly calm. 

_ “What do we have here?” _ the hat mused.  _ “Intelligence - ooh… a penchant for rule-breaking, the ability to conceal and to keep secrets… Perhaps Ravenclaw, or even Slytherin!” _

_ “Probably best not Slytherin,” _ Hermione thought as hard as possible.  _ “I dunno about Ravenclaw.” _ She liked to think she was intelligent, and not as narrow-minded as most of her peers - and could easily blend in from what she’d heard of Ravenclaw, but she also liked to think she was more than just a know-it-all bookworm.  _ “I know!” _ the hat said gleefully.  _ “Already you show self-awareness, and such bravery to dare to be different, to befriend the ones you want without thought of the prejudices of others!”  _

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted, and Hermione resignedly went to the right table, her tie now red and gold. Gryffindor wasn’t bad, per se, but she had a bit of bias toward that house. As she sat by her new housemates, Professor Snape, sitting with the staff beside a man with a purple turban, inclined his head slightly - which made her feel a bit better. The Sorting continued, with Neville Sorted into Gryffindor with her after an almost-hatstall. That she was very happy about, and made room for him to sit beside her. She felt he was someone worth knowing. Then, Draco was immediately Sorted in Slytherin, swaggering over to his table with a smirk. Finally, though, it was time for Harry Potter. “This is going to be interesting,” she said to herself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter! Apologies for the delay.   
> As well, double update this weekend! The next chapter should be posted tomorrow at the latest! :)
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for the comments and kudos and for reading this story of mine!


	9. Better Be...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry Potter gets Sorted, most of the staff fall into despair and disbelief, and the seeds of a revolution are planted.

When Hermione was Sorted into Gryffindor, Draco groaned beside him.

“You did say that it was best she wasn’t Sorted in Slytherin,” Harry said to him. 

“I know. It’s probably even an honour, to be Sorted into Gryffindor. I just… I don’t think she’ll be properly appreciated in that House. Even Uncle Sev says there have been decent Gryffindors, but as a whole I’ve heard horror stories. Not only are they the absolute darling of Hogwarts, they hate Slytherin House the most, and from the stories I’ve heard, the Gryffindors are mostly the type of people Hermione refuses to be associated with. The brash, popular, golden favourites of school. Yes, I know Slytherin House earned its reputation for a reason, but it’s not a bad thing to be ambitious, and cunning, and not idiotic and throwing oneself into conflict all the time!” 

“Whatever happens, though, she’s got us.”

“Damn right!” Draco swore, looking very serious. “I gave an oath to Hermione Granger, a long time ago, and Malfoys don’t break those kinds of oaths.”

Then, Neville Longbottom got his name called, and after what Draco told him was almost a hatstall, was put into Gryffindor. “Merlin, they’ll eat Longbottom alive! He’s always struck me as a Hufflepuff, though I admit I don’t know him that well.”

“You’ve met him before the train, right?”

“Yes. He’s the Heir to the House of Longbottom, which means something in our circles. From what I’ve always seen, he’s quiet, likes plants, and his grandmother is absolutely horrid! I mean, at least my Father gives a damn about me. I try not to spend too much time with Longbottom for...reasons. Has to do with the fact that he lives up in Longbottom Manor with only his grandmother.”

“Has something to do with the war, and Voldemort, right?”

“Right. Don’t say that name, though, especially in - Professor Snape’s company. He won’t appreciate it, and not because he’s afraid of the name or rot like that.”

“Can I ask why?” Harry asked. Draco was about to respond, but then the stern Professor called him up. 

“I’ll tell you tomorrow or something,” he hissed as he walked forward. As soon as the hat touched his head, it yelled, “SLYTHERIN!” 

As he watched the Sorting continue, now alone, a lot of thoughts were churning in his head. Harry wasn’t really nervous, since whatever happened with his Sorting, Hermione and Draco would still be his friends. He did notice, however, that everyone clapped for those Sorted in Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and half-heartedly for Hufflepuff, but it was only Slytherins clapping for Slytherins. He thought about what Draco and Hermione had told him, about Draco’s godfather (who didn’t seem to like him much) and the first conversation he’d had with Draco, about knowing what it was like to be judged by first impressions and appearances. 

So when McGonagall called out, “Potter, Harry!” and the Great Hall burst out into uproar, he had his mind made up. Draco had told him both his parents had been in Gryffindor, and he figured that’s what most people were betting on, but he wasn’t the parents he’d never met, however nice and heroic they might have been. Taking in a deep breath, he walked up to the stool, and jammed the Sorting hat onto his head.

_ “What do we have here?” _ the hat mused.  _ “A thirst for knowledge, loyalty...potential for greatness! Oooh, I think you’ll do very well in Gryffindor. The House of the daring and the brave.” _

_ “If you can read minds, you know which House I want to be in,” _ Harry said in a huff. Shouldn’t this process be more...seamless? Either it decided by itself, or put you where you wanted, right?

_ “Yes, yes, you would do very well in Slytherin - a thirst to prove yourself. But you see, that daring makes you perfect for Gryffindor.” _

_ “No!” _ Harry said angrily. _ “Put me in Slytherin. Not because I’m an evil dark wizard like Voldemort, or not because I want greatness or even to prove myself. I want to prove - to show - all of Hogwarts, and beyond, that  _ Slytherins  _ aren’t just evil. That we can be capable of great and good things as well. That being cunning, and ambitious, and smart and pushing boundaries isn’t always bad thing. That we can be brave, and loyal, and intelligent, while still being of Slytherin House! I want to prove that all of us can be more. I want to show everyone just what Slytherin House is made of.” _ He’d gone all his life being judged, for one reason or another, and had even done the same to Draco when he’d first met him. Already, he could tell that everyone hated even just the first-year Slytherins, without seeing if they were bigots or terrible people first. He wanted to change that. And if he ended up in the same dorm as Draco, the better! It wasn’t about ambition, really, or thirst for power. It was about a boy who had slept in the cupboard under the stairs for most of his life, who wanted to show that Slytherin House (apart from the bigots and wannabe evil wizards) was more than what everyone said it was.

_ “Well, well, well! Who am I do deny a Potter what he’s set his mind to! Better be,”  _

“SLYTHERIN!”

Immediately the hall went entirely silent. “Maybe they all think I’m evil now,” Harry thought to himself. He was still shocked and upset about the discovery they all thought he was responsible for bringing Voldemort down, which even Draco said seemed implausible when he thought about it. Draco mentioned it might have happened because of his mother, who died to save him and probably did something with blood magic. Nothing to do with him, yet adults and kids alike thought him a saviour. 

As he took off the hat, and put on his best blank ‘whatever-you-want-Aunt-Petunia’ face for McGonagall, who looked at him in shock, Slytherin table began to applaud, starting with Draco. At his friend’s fierce look of pride, Harry smiled a little bit, and made his way to the table. He looked at the Gryffindor table, and there Hermione showed him two thumbs up, and then started clapping. Neville joined her, seeming surprised but still being a good sport, and that led the entirety of the Great Hall to start clapping hesitantly. 

Harry settled beside Draco, who looked at him with an impressed expression, and then looked up at the teachers. The Headmaster, who sat in the middle, seemed as grave and shocked as McGonagall.  _ Let them think what they want _ , he thought savagely to himself.  _ I’ll show them. _ It wasn’t just about him anymore, after all.

“That was...interesting. Mind sharing your reasoning? You’ve made my godfather absolutely shocked!”

“Everyone seems personally insulted,” Harry agreed. As the Sorting wound down, after McGonagall gathered herself and began calling out names again, Harry leaned in and whispered to Draco what he’d told the hat.

“You are something, Harry Potter,” Draco said. “I’ll help you with your impossible goal, if you’ll have me.”

“That’ll be nice. We’ll show them, together.” With that, Harry continued to clap for every person Sorted, regardless of their House. Draco only clapped for new Slytherins, but didn’t say anything scathing to him about his actions. His friend’s steady presence beside him made all the curious, angry, and shocked stares the other Slytherins were treating him to much more bearable.

Finally, “Zabini, Blaise!” was Sorted into Slytherin, and Headmaster Dumbledore - “my Father says he’s the worst thing to happen to Hogwarts,” he’d said once - stood up to say a couple of words and frankly terrifying announcements. 

“I see what you mean about Dumbledore,” Harry muttered. “Doesn’t seem all there. Is that safe for a school?”

“From the stories I have heard, from my parents and from my godfather, I believe that Hogwarts is what Hermione would consider a  _ hazardous environment _ . Of course, Hogwarts is one of the safest buildings in Britain, but it’s inside the school that isn’t so...safe. Not all the time.”

“Well, at least your Father is on the Board of whatever, right?” Harry said, brightening as the most food he’d ever seen appeared in front of him. “That way, if anything does happen, you’ll have someone on your side.”

“True,” Draco drawled, all pureblood scion for a moment. “And it’s the Board of Governors, Potter. Do keep up.” Though Draco’s words were haughty, they both shared a glance of complicity. 

“Really, though. Why would he tell us that the third-floor corridor is banned, and potentially very dangerous? Without a proper reason, I mean. Wouldn’t that just make people want to go see what’s up there?”

“Like bait?” Draco asked, taking a neat little bite of his potatoes. He had table manners Aunt Petunia would envy.

“Yeah. I know that if a teacher told Dudley - my cousin - that, he’d get his gang to check it out. Like, as soon as possible”

“Like I said,” Draco huffed. “Dumbledore isn’t someone who ought to be in charge of the foremost magical institution in Britain. Father abhors him and his politics, Uncle Sev - that’s Professor Snape to you, if you don’t want him to poison you very painfully - has a very complicated relationship with him, and even Hermione thinks there’s something...fishy about him. 

“I would stay away, especially given that you’re the Boy-Who-Lived, and that your parents were in his vigilante group. Against the Dark Lord, I mean.”

“Really? Do you know much about that?” Harry asked eagerly, but whispering so that the other potentially-hostile Slytherins wouldn’t overhear. This was the first he’d heard of this! 

“No. Just that it was called the Order of the Phoenix, and that many blood-traitor families were members. Uncle Sev would know more, since he was a spy in the war, but he won’t tell me much.”

“Do you think, if I asked him, and not Dumbledore, he’d tell me more? Maybe about my parents…”

“I don’t think that would be wise, no, but maybe he’ll surprise you. The thing is, he absolutely hated your dad. He doesn’t talk about his schooling much, but I know he loathed James Potter while he was still alive. See, you look quite like him, from the few pictures I’ve seen - his mother was a Black, which means we’re family in a way. When I mentioned my friendship with you to him, he wasn’t very happy. However, you’re a Slytherin, meaning that he can’t dislike you in class - too public - unless you really step out of line. Maybe, if you really impress him, he might grant you some information. I can try to ask as well.” Draco said, whispering as well. The adoration for his godfather was clear in his voice, but so was his hesitance.

“Thanks for being honest with me, at least.”

“No problem. I’m not the person who can tell you about the Order of the Phoenix, or your parents. Our families were on opposing sides of the war, and your mother was a mudblood - muggleborn, I mean. Whatever I heard, wasn’t much of it that was good. Mother might have a more favorable impression, however, especially when it comes to James Potter. I’ll write to her tonight, when I write to my father that Harry Potter decided to accept my overture of friendship.”

“He really told you to try to befriend me?” Harry asked incredulously, reading between the lines.

“Yes. I just neglected to mention that I’d already made your acquaintance. You’re someone people either want to befriend you, or to make you into an enemy, Harry. That’s a reality of life, I’m afraid.”

“Bollocks,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to make sure that I get famous for things I actually did.”

“Exactly. And that is why you are a Slytherin,” Draco said, now smirking. “We got Potter,” he continued softly.

Not knowing what to say, and rather overwhelmed by the Great Hall, and the feast in front of him, Harry focused on eating. He’d never seen so much food before! Harry knew to pace himself, however. One didn’t go from eating table scraps to overindulging in rich food like that without consequences, and the last thing he wanted was to throw up on his first night in Slytherin. He  _ knew  _ that all Slytherins weren’t bad, and wanted to prove that with a burning desire, but he also was a realist. Not everyone would welcome him. Professor Snape, who was now his Head of House, was already prejudiced against him. There were a lot of people in Slytherin whose parents and grandparents had supported Voldemort - whom Draco called the Dark Lord. It wouldn’t be all rainbows and roses, but then, he’d have gone with Gryffindor if he’d wanted that. 

However, Harry was pleasantly surprised. After the feast, feeling bloated, but in a good way, a prefect who introduced herself as Gemma Farley led them into the dungeons, where their dorm was. He stuck close to Draco, tired yet ready for a not-so-nice welcome. They stopped at a stretch of stone, and he gasped in awe as Gemma showed them how to enter the Slytherin dorms. 

“The password is  _ Cunning and Ambition _ , remember that,” Gemma instructed in a no-nonsense voice. Another person he shouldn’t cross, along with McGonagall and Professor Snape, who sounded absolutely terrifying. Yet in a good way, since he was fond of Hermione and Draco.

As all the first-years filed in, after everyone else, Gemma motioned him aside. Draco, with a suspicious look, lurked just inside the entrance. That just made the warm feeling in his chest increase, that he had a friend who actually cared about him. 

“Look, Potter. Yes, you’re the Boy-Who-Lived, but you’re also a half-blood. Slytherin House gets a really bad rep concerning blood purity. Now, as you’ll learn, that usually isn’t an issue if you’re one of us, but there are some older students who have...very bigoted ideals. As a fellow half-blood, I’m on your side; anyone gives you trouble, you send them to me. And if you have any questions about the wizarding world, feel free to ask. We’re Slytherins, and that means something,” Gemma finished, smiling slightly at him.

Silently, Harry followed her through, and gazed at what would be his home for seven years. It was bloody amazing, but he didn’t have time to admire the set-up of the dorms. Professor Snape, who’d sat next to Quirrell during the feast (he’d had a pain in his scar when he’d looked straight at the now-turbaned man, which Harry thought was strange), swept in, glowering at all of them. It was just the first-years now, everyone else having gone to bed. 

“Welcome to Slytherin House,” Professor Snape drawled with a silky, danger-lurking-underneath voice. “As you might have already ascertained, the other Houses are rather...biased against Slytherins. I believe that their reasoning makes them hypocrites, but that is my own opinion. This leads me to the short list of rules every student in this House must abide by. 

“Firstly, no bigotry. You are all Slytherins first, and whatever your personal opinions, I don’t want to see or hear them. Save that for the other Houses. Secondly, don’t get caught. Here, you are taught how to reach your goals through finesse, not the blundering the Gryffindors are so fond of. Whatever it is you want to achieve, or to learn, or whatever school rules and mores you break, I only ask that you do so undetected. Thirdly, respect the Dark Arts. While it is a very taboo subject, in this school and in our government, you will find a lot of appreciation for the magic often considered...Dark. However, for your own sakes, do not blindly perform the kinds of spells that render one’s soul dark. Learn and understand the Dark Arts, but above all respect them as an entity that can often lead to ruin or death. A healthy dose of common sense and respect is your ally in the study of any branch of magic, especially this one. 

“Finally, Slytherins look out for one another. We must not be divided. Leave your petty conflicts with one another, and save it for those who hate you for the colour of your robes. Here, we are allies, and we are family.  _ Snakes look out for one another _ ,” he repeated harshly. “That is the most important thing. Save the hatred, the conflict, the schemes, for those beneath our notice. That is all. Tomorrow, a prefect will give you an introduction to Hogwarts and your classes, and you will be shown where to go.” With that, he stalked out, leaving a group of first-years gobsmacked and in awe behind.

“The girls’ dorm is that way, and the boys’ is there. Set your alarms bright and early for tomorrow. Chop chop!” Gemma said, shooing them to their respective dormitories. 

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Harry said quietly.

“Well, it’s a key tenet of our House. Slytherins look out for one another. Not everyone is the same, mind, and we are a den of snakes, make no mistake of that. However, there is a sense of unity here you will never be without, and Merlin help you if you betray that unity.”

“That’s nice. Like being part of a family,” Harry said. A family that looked out for one another sounded lovely, and yet another reason why he was so happy with his choice. 

They filed into their dorm, which was cool and bathed with greenish light, coming from a window inlaid into the wall. It looked out onto the Great Lake, though Harry could only see algae and a couple of normal-looking fish. Immediately, Draco threw himself on the floor, and started looking...under the beds? Harry desperately wanted to ask what he was doing, but didn’t; he’d figure out soon enough. Besides, the other boys - the first-year boys were six in total - were doing the same.

“Aha!” Draco cried, and rushed to his trunk, piled up with the rest along a bare stretch of wall. Using the same spell Hermione had used to help Neville, he floated his trunk to the bed on the left, closest to the wall and window. Then, he pulled out of his pocket what Harry knew to be a regular - Muggle - pocket knife, though if the other boys were pureblood they might not know that. Harry watched with bafflement as everyone chose their beds and carved their names in the bedposts (either with spells or Draco’s pocket knife).. Going to the only bed left, the one across from Draco, he crouched down, and saw that there was a long list of names carved into the bed’s bedposts. 

“This bed was my father’s,” Draco confided as Harry turned to look at Draco, who’d carved his name underneath a flowery script that read Lucius Malfoy. He had to go right next to Draco and squint to make that out, however. 

“Here,” his friend - that thought still made him giddy, and he hoped that would never change - handed him his pocket knife. “Thanks,” Harry said softly, and went to his own bed. It was hard, carving his name into the ancient wood, but he managed. After a second of thought, he added a star beside his name. It stood for his first friend, named after a constellation - which Draco had bragged about multiple times - who’d helped him find his way into the confusing wizarding world, and had led him to his other friend, Hermione. It also stood for the change he wanted the world to acknowledge - a lone star shining in the heavens.

Name carved, pyjamas on, trunk stored, Harry was ready to go to bed. His fears had mostly been alleviated, and so now all he wanted to do was sleep. However, a hissed psst from Draco had him climbing onto the other’s bed, and closing the green curtains. Draco, who was in black silk pyjamas - sometimes, he wondered at how he’d found out he was a wizard, famous, and made a friend who happened to be very old money. (It felt like a dream, but the best thing about all of this was that it was real! Oh, and he was very rich and very old money too, and wasn’t that mind-boggling as well?)

“Here. We should find a way to keep into contact with you - maybe finally finish the Protean charms - but for now we have to share the two-way mirrors,” Draco said, after saying  _ Muffliato _ , “to keep others from eavesdropping.” He’d also laid simple wards he said all the old families made their children learn, and told Harry to do the same. 

“Hermione Granger, as I live and breathe!” he said as Hermione’s bushy hair and smiling face appeared in the mirror Draco was holding.

“Hello! First night at Hogwarts! I can barely believe it. I’ve already written a letter to mum and dad, though I’ll have to wait for the morning to post it. Congrats! And you!” Hermione said excitedly, looking at Harry now. “Are you happy where you are?”

“Very,” Harry said softly.

“He asked the hat to put him in Slytherin,” Draco confided. 

“I wanted to show everyone just what Slytherin was capable of. I mean, Hagrid was the first person to show me the wizarding world, and he seems really nice, but even he seems to be...prejudiced against Slytherin. It just bothered me, so I decided to change that.”

Hermione didn’t say anything, but she smiled fiercely, and Harry knew she understood. Draco might never know what it was to be bullied and mocked personally, but both he and Hermione did, and that created a kinship between them. 

“Well, the Protean charm is almost finished. Professor Snape is giving me extra lessons, along with Draco, so I’ll be able to solicit his help - if I’m lucky - with it.” Hermione babbled on as she usually did, describing her dorm, her dorm-mates - “they seem nice, but I don’t think they have the same priorities that I do, and I don’t just mean schoolwork. I’ll see, but I’m happy Neville’s in Gryffindor too.” - and talking about a ginger in her year - a Weasley - who was all outraged because Harry Potter was in Slytherin and not in Gryffindor. In return, Harry talked about the splendor of the Slytherin dorms, the terrifying awesomeness that was Professor Snape - “he’s even more terrifying in person, I swear - and that’s when he likes you!” - and his absolute enjoyment of the feast.

“And we have the best House ghost, I think. The Bloody Baron seems so interesting!” Harry said, still absolutely excited at the thought of actual ghosts, much less one who clearly had a very interesting story. He’d have to ask the ghosts their stories one day, if they were willing!

“The ghosts seem interesting, true, but we had a run-in with Peeves. Ugh! Seriously? A school with a poltergeist? I will try to make sure he isn’t angry at me for any reason, but I have a feeling he’ll become a serious irritant,” Hermione grumbled. “I’m afraid I don’t have much taste for pranks and that kind of mischief, especially the less kind-hearted ones that Peeves seems capable of.”

“I’ll go gather the information,” Draco promised. Harry had learnt it was a thing they did, Hermione curious about something, and Draco figuring out everything about that person or activity or law… Seemed nice. And very useful and practical.

“Draco,” Harry wondered, right before going back to his own comfy bed. “Why is saying Voldemort’s name bad? I don’t think you mean it in the sense most people seem to.”

“Oh, right. That’s because Uncle Sev is a Marked Death Eater - I’ve told you about that. It hurts him, physically, through the Mark, when you say the Dark Lord’s name in his hearing. Hermione also reckons it’s a psychological thing. Plus, during the war, the name was under a taboo - he could trace you if you ever said his name - so some people just don’t want to get in the habit again, in case he resurrects himself as Dumbledore apparently thinks. And Hagrid, you said. ”

“Oh, right,” Harry said. “Makes sense.” He’d definitely try to remember that. “Thank you for letting me know.”

He quietly went to his bed, and fell into a deep sleep. Whatever happened, whatever would come in the morning, he would be ready. Right now, though, he was in a magic school and had two friends and a beautiful owl, and he was happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila! Here's the new chapter!
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos and for the comments! They bring me joy every time! :)
> 
> P.S. Sorry once again for the delay in last week's chapter. Hopefully it won't happen again!
> 
> P.P.S. Shout-out to the Cunning and Ambition series by MinaAndChao, which was the inspiration for the dorm password and my own version of Slytherin House (and some of its traditions).


	10. The Nature of Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we take a closer look at Draco's psyche, a certain Potions Master decides to reconsider some of his opinions, and friendship is the center that holds everything together - and that changes everything (for the better).

Draco was going to be late - so very, very late.

As usual, the blame could be laid on Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. Hermione, because it was her research that had kept him in the library, under the hawk-eyed gaze of Madam Pince, and Harry because he was so bloody famous! And a bloody idiot to boot. That was what he got from hanging around with riff-raff of the likes of scholars and bleeding-heart Liberals! He would be absolutely miserable without them, however, so there was that. 

In this instance, however, Draco Malfoy freely blamed his two friends for his late entrance into his godfather’s rooms. 

“You’re late,” the familiar voice said. Draco bemoaned his own ruffled appearance. Malfoys didn’t  _ rush _ , and they always had composure. Well, right now composure had flown out of the window. 

“Blame Potter,” he wanted to huff angrily, but that wouldn’t be fair to his godfather nor to his friend (they didn’t exactly have the best relationship). And how he had fallen, if he cared about things being fair, as if he were a Hufflepuff.

“My apologies, Uncle,” he said instead, knowing not to engage in the whinghing he indulged in when the occasion called for it. He knew his godfather cared for him, a lot, and had proven it over and over, but he was still a tempermental bastard sometimes, and hated tardiness. Especially when he expected better from you. Hermione, of course, had managed to charm him, and though his godfather couldn’t show favoritism in class, he didn’t single her out for bullying or anything. And if she was late to an illicit after-school meeting in the Potions Professor’s quarters, then all he told her was to make sure it didn’t happen in the future. She never even had to apologize. 

While his uncle had fallen under the charm of one Hermione Granger, he still did show Draco favoritism (because he was Uncle Sev’s amazing godson), which is why in this case the lecture was forgoed. He had apologized, and knew not to do it again.

“This isn’t a regular after-hours lessons,” Draco started. “Has something bad happened? To Mother? To Father? Not the Grangers, surely - Hermione would be the first to know.”

“Not necessarily. I have brought here to continue your tutelage for Occlumency, which you show potential for despite your young age, but also to discuss something you muttered under your breath in class this Monday. I found it...worth investigating, but I wouldn’t want Dumbledore to get wind of my after-hours tutelage - and I must be _ bloody insane _ , to think of doing this in the first place - when it isn’t even November yet.”

With that, Draco gulped, suddenly very scared. Unlike Harry Potter, who while definitely a Slytherin, had already shown flashes of being a complete Gryffindor, Draco valued self-preservation quite a bit. Therefore, he had no wish to wade into this discussion, not at all. 

“May I sit, Uncle?” he said, mentally fortifying himself. If he recited some of Romeo’s lines in his head to calm himself down, then no-one had to know.

“Of course,” his godfather said, nodding to the chair he had just conjured; the regular one on the other side of his desk was made to be uncomfortable.

See, the problem was friendship: friendship and loyalty. He owed so much to his godfather, and looked up to him - though not as much as Hermione admired his intelligence and fortitude and amazing duelling and potioneering skills - but he now had two friends whom he was loyal to. Yes, Hermione had talked about boarding school friendships for years before Hogwarts, and how they often fell apart after graduating from the confines of school, but he had known Hermione Granger for most of his life, and while Harry was a relatively new addition in his life, he knew that they would be the kind of friends who never drifted apart. It was like he knew that his godfather would do practically anything for him, including lying to his parents about his friendship with a Muggle girl who turned out to be a Mudblood, and like he knew that he’d rather drink poison rather than hurt his mother. 

However, it now caused a conflict, because Severus Snape loathed Harry Potter; sure, he restrained himself in class, and when he was among Slytherins, but he wasn’t the Head of House Harry could count on like all other Slytherins did. Not to mention, the problem of Neville Longbottom. Hermione had taken an instant shine to him, and Draco was so grateful to Longbottom - words he’d never thought he’d say - because all the other Gryffindor first-years were positively loathsome. Now Draco had his own kinship with Longbottom, for they were both Heirs to their respective families, and he’d always seemed to be a lonely boy, but it was his Aunt Bella who had landed Longbottom’s parents in St. Mungo’s. That was something that couldn’t be breached unless another near-death adventure pushed them together. Plus, he didn’t know the boy well enough to make an unbiased assessment of who he was as a person. Harry liked him as well, since he was always polite in Herbology, and in the other classes they shared. The problem was that Draco felt he had a debt to Longbottom, and his godfather was not the kindest teacher on the planet to him.

Oh, Draco knew very well that Professor Snape could be so much more vicious than that, and he had avoided belittling Longbottom the way he did Weasley and others, but he didn’t do much to help the fact that Longbottom was terrified of him, and kept blowing up and melting cauldrons because of that. This, incidentally, led Hermione to clean up his messes and save the classroom from annihilation. Which was a state of affairs he wasn’t happy with. 

It had all come to a head this week. Draco had not been sleeping well, after receiving a menacing letter - subtle and well-encrypted, of course - about his ‘friendliness’ with the Mudblood girl, and Longbottom kept on blowing things up, and Harry always looked like a kicked puppy whenever Uncle Sev so much looked at him! In his 11-year-old wisdom, he’d muttered about teachers who could use a different approach in order to not traumatize his students to death, and of course Uncle Severus had heard it! He had gotten caught, mumbling a throwaway comment in anger that one of the most important people in his life had overheard, and who had immediately descended into a rage-filled mood for the rest of the class. Now it seemed it was time for a...discussion. And he absolutely had no idea what to expect. 

“Let’s not pretend we don’t know what you muttered, or why. You are...displeased with my treatment of Longbottom,” his uncle started, steepling his fingers, dark eyes fixated on Draco. The only thing that allowed him to keep eye contact was the certainty that Uncle Severus wouldn’t use Legilimency on him without saying anything first. Draco kept his mouth shut; true, he was displeased with how Longbottom was a nerve-wracked mess in Potions, but he was also indignant on Harry’s behalf. Harry’s parents were dead, his guardians were Muggles and apparently absolutely ghastly, McGonagall and Dumbledore seemed to take it personally that he hadn’t been Sorted into Gryffindor, and now his Head of House made no secret that had he not been a Slytherin, it would have been an all-out war against one Harry James Potter. 

His godfather knew him well, however, so when Draco didn’t agree, he lifted an eyebrow, and said, “No, that’s not all, either. You don’t like the way I treat Potter.”

“No, sir,” Draco choked out. It was absolutely  _ awful  _ that he was stuck between his godfather and one of his only friends. “He’s my friend, and a Slytherin. He deserves - no, he’s earned better than indifference. I know you have history with his father, and that you hate attention-seeking dunderheads, but Harry Potter is neither his father, nor likes his fame. He loathes it, and who wouldn’t, when he’s famous for something his parents died for? I would understand if Harry was a Gryffindor. I wouldn’t like it, but I would understand. But he’s a true Slytherin, and I know for a fact that he needs people in his corner. He knew nothing about the wizarding world before getting his letter! Dumbledore, who Harry tells me dropped him off at his Aunt and Uncle’s, told him nothing about his heritage, or about the world he belongs to. Everyone, apart from Longbottom, for some reason, and Hermione and I, wants a piece of him. I just wish...that you’d just give him a chance!”

After his impassioned speech, Draco sat down suddenly, just realizing he’d gotten to his feet in his zealousness. Oops… This was the first time, he noted with a growing sense of dread, that he’d mouthed off to an authority figure - those annoying Bobbies notwithstanding. Yet as he sat there, the seconds went by, and his godfather continued to say nothing. After what felt like an eternity, Uncle Severus cleared his throat.

“Is that so?” he asked, in a deadly, quiet tone. Draco nodded, unable to speak. Had he ruined things irreversibly? Hermione, when talking about her parents, mentioned unconditional love, but Uncle Sev wasn’t his father, really, and wasn’t blood either. What if he decided to wash his hands of Draco? After all, he was just another arrogant pureblood child. What if -

“Well, you’ve given me a lot of food for thought,” Uncle Severus said, interrupting Draco’s mounting panic. “You have brought forth important arguments, firstly, but also the fact that this is coming from you - well, it gives the words quite a bit more weight.” 

At that, Draco gaped. His godfather thought his word and his opinions were worth more than the countless others who had no doubt tried to change his actions and temperament; not just Dumbledore, he knew, but McGonagall, and even Professor Sprout. Suddenly, his budding panic was quickly chased by elation. He hadn’t irreversibly ruined things after all. 

“Thank you,” his godfather continued, “for letting your opinions be known to me, despite whatever reception might have awaited you. Knowing when to speak, and how - that’s an important trait that will serve you later on.” And then, in typical Severus Snape fashion, he abruptly stood up, and Draco knew this discussion was over. Time for Occlumency, then. 

“Friendship is  _ so  _ high-maintenance, sometimes,” Draco said to himself ( _ silently _ \- he’d learnt his lesson) as his heart rate tried to settle back to normal.

That night, in the Slytherin dorms, Draco was snuggling into his blanket in bed, waiting for sleep to set in. The conversation, brief as it had been, with Uncle Severus, had taken a lot out of him. Not to mention all the homework they were getting, and the fact that he battled the urge daily to snap at Longbottom just like Uncle Sev had been doing, or to absolutely  _ throttle  _ that  _ Weasley _ , who had begun to make Hermione’s life hell. 

“Mister Potter,” a voice rang out, and Draco immediately sat up and peeked out of the curtains ensconcing his bed. Uncle Severus was there, holding a plain wooden box in his hands, by Harry’s bed. If the rest of the boys - Theo, Blaise, Crabbe or Goyle -  had heard, they knew enough about discretion to pretend ignorance. 

Harry peeked out of his bed, hair an absolute mess and an expression of dread on his face. Uncle Severus still said nothing, merely holding the box out for Harry to take. Harry looked at Draco, and he tried to put a supportive smile on his face, which seemed to have helped. 

Reluctantly, Harry took the box, pushing the curtains out of his way. Uncle Severus stood with his hands clasped behind his back, an indecipherable expression on his face. When Harry saw the contents of the box, he gasped, and looked at Uncle Severus in complete awe. Much like he himself did, along with Hermione. Uncle Severus wasn’t always the nicest person, but once you had his loyalty and favour, it was yours to treasure forever (unless you betrayed him, which was something he didn’t recommend  _ at all _ ).

“I don’t know if you were told this, Potter, but I knew your mother, once. Which is why I am completely shocked to have found out Dumbledore put you with her sister - especially when there had been more...deserving candidates. It occured to me, then, that you might not have much things of your parents. I hope the contents are of some use to you.” With that, he nodded, and stalked out of the dorm room, cloak billowing behind him. Completely gobsmacked, Harry and Draco just looked at each other for a moment. 

Then Harry seemed to have sorted his thoughts out, and gingerly made his way to Draco’s bed. Once the curtains were closed, and privacy spells and wards laid, Harry spread the box’s contents on the bed with shaking hands. As each memento was carefully laid out by Harry - pictures, old pieces of homework, letters of recommendation, old notebooks, a prefect badge, a scarf, even some old records - pieces began to connect in Draco’s mind. And still there was more, the box having an Undetectable Extension Charm in order to fit all of Lily Potter’s school things and mementos. It was a real treasure trove, and Draco could tell that Uncle Severus had gotten Harry’s loyalty for life.

“You didn’t have anything of hers, did you?” he said softly. Draco had shown a picture or two of James Potter - along with Sirius Black, before he’d become a mass murderer - that his mother had sent him, but it wasn’t the same. 

“No,” Harry croaked. “Professor Snape was spot-on. Aunt Petunia never really talked about either of my parents. She said my dad was a drunk, did you know that? And that my parents had been killed in a car crash? It wasn’t until I met you that I learnt that James Potter wasn’t a drunk after all, and that he came from money and a family that seemed to adore him, and that my mum was a brilliant witch - though no-one apart from Professor Snape has acknowledged her apart from ‘being good at charms.’” With that, he started sniffling, and tears started to drip down from his emerald-green eyes. At a loss, Draco quickly moved some of the papers away, so that no tears would mess them up. He was terrible with crying people! If it had been Hermione, he’d either stand out of the way until her crying jag was done, or let her cry into his expensive robe and then babble à-la-Hermione. This time, not knowing if it was right, he put an arm over Harry’s shoulders, and let him cry until the tears had all dried up.

“Here,” he muttered, handing over a handkerchief. Harry took a moment to wipe his face, and then mumbled his thanks. Draco had of course known that Harry’s Muggle relatives were truly out of Father’s horror stories, but he hadn’t known it was this bad! He also got the feeling that these lies were just the tip of the iceberg. It wasn’t his place to pry, though - Merlin knew how he’d like it if Harry tried to pso-sy-psychoanalyze  _ him _ and his life. 

“I’m glad Professor Snape decided to give that box to you,” he said.

“It was something you did, wasn’t it?” Harry stated, smiling slightly now. Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “I merely said a few things, but he’s the one who decided to give you information about your mum. Told you he’s the best, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “You’re lucky to have him as your godfather. How did he have all this, though? It’s like I said. Everyone says how Lily Potter was good at Charms, but they - like Hagrid, or Professor Sprout - mostly talk about my dad, how he liked pranks and how I look almost exactly like him.”

“I think I know,” Draco said, the picture clear in his head now. “Can I call Hermione, first?” he asked.

“Sure,” Harry said, fixated on a picture of a young Lily in a concert shirt, laying on the grounds near the Great Lake. 

“Hermione,” Draco sighed with relief as a familiar face appeared in the mirror. “Did we wake you?”

“No, I was just finishing my homework. Normally, I’d have done it in the Common Room, but Weasley’s been more unbearable - keeps muttering unpleasant things about swots. Better that I do it in my bed.” 

Once more Draco was filled with rage at Weasley’s nerve, but now was not the time. “You remember how Uncle Severus had a mudblood friend? I mean - his friend who’d been a muggleborn.”

“The one he’d had a falling out with,” Hermione agreed, watching Harry’s face as understanding began to dawn.

“I think we’ve just found out who that was. Lily Evans Potter,” Draco whispered. His own shock was mirrored in Hermione’s face - “But how do you know?”

Draco told the story - an abridged version of his conversation earlier in the day, and his godfather’s gift of the wooden box. 

“Wow! What a coincidence!” Hermione said. “And that means that Professor Snape doesn’t hate you that much, anymore, if he willingly gave you all those momentos, and literally told you he’d been her friend - he’d known me and Draco would put it together! Hey, I know what we can do: this weekend, we should see if they have yearbooks in the library. There’s bound to be pictures of them together, since they were friends. And as for the pictures you have, mum has an empty album at home that she hasn’t used yet. I can owl her with Corvus tomorrow to send it to Hogwarts. That way you can start a collection of pictures of your parents, and we can find some more of your dad’s and their friends!”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said, looking at Hermione with complete gratitude - as if she was the best person in the universe. Draco totally understood the feeling. 

“Perfect! I’ll draft the letter tonight, I’ll ask Mc-Professor McGonagall about the yearbooks - in a totally stealthy way, just so you know, so don’t get all Slytherin-judgy with me.”

“That’s my know-it-all Gryffindor,” Draco said with a smile. 

“As for the Protean charm on the necklaces - I think I can finish that by tomorrow! I have an early (illicit) lesson with Professor Snape, so just send Dobby with the necklace before you go to bed.” They’d found that house-elves were great at transporting objects from one House to another. They ended the call, and Draco called Dobby, reluctantly taking his necklace off. He felt bare without it, but he knew that Hermione would return it the second she was done at whatever ungodly time Uncle Sev had decided their weekday extra-lessons would be held at. 

“Hopefully, if you continue to show him that you actually care about Potions -” because Draco was almost a natural, but Harry had been entranced by Potions from day one, much like Hermione, though he still needed nudges sometimes - “I think you’ll get on much better. It’s like I said, anyway. You’re a Slytherin.”

Harry carefully put everything back in the box, and began to weave some of the protective spells Draco had taught him. Draco had somehow wheedled out an old Potter grimoire - his father, for some reason, seemed to have heirlooms of all of the pureblood families - out of Father, and Harry had taken to master them with a vengeance. 

After that was done, he hugged Draco very tightly, before sneaking out to his own bed. For a while, he lay there in his bed, brain digesting and classifying everything that had happened today. Including the part where Uncle Sev - who was usually a good judge of character, apart from James Potter and some chap called Lupin whom he seemed to hate quite a bit - had not been able to fathom leaving baby Harry Potter with Petunia Dursley. And the fact that his mudblood friend had been Lily Evans! Now that Draco thought of it, they’d probably had a falling out due to Potter, or Uncle Sev’s then-willingness to join the Dark Lord. Hopefully, he, Harry and Hermione would never have a falling out like that. 

Before drifting off to sleep, Draco reflected that while friendships were had work, and often put one into conflict with others (like Uncle Sev, and Father’s judgments) it was _ so worth it _ . And so far, he’d been a pretty good friend, he thought. It was a nice sentiment to fall asleep to. Hopefully tomorrow wouldn’t be as draining. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly late update!
> 
> Thank you once again for reading my story, and for the comments and kudos! :)


	11. Hogwarts' Safety Precautions (Or Lack Thereof)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which mortal danger is encountered, Hogwarts needs (better) evacuation procedures, and Neville Longbottom makes three friends for life.

The very next day, after Draco had witnessed with his own eyes the phenomenon that was Uncle Sev trying to be civil with Harry Potter, was October 31st.

Halloween, to the Muggles, and Samhain to those who followed the old traditions. Samhain...never went well, in Draco’s experience. Perhaps it was Hermione rubbing off on him, but as Draco trudged to breakfast that day, worn out from yesterday’s eventfulness, he couldn’t help thinking about how much worse it could become in a school of witchcraft and wizardry. 

However, Harry’s excitement was rather contagious. While his other best friend had learnt his parents had died on Halloween, he’d told Draco that the pain of losing them was never as sharp, since he’d never really known Lily or James Potter. Draco personally thought that Harry was fibbing a bit, but he knew to let his friend keep his secrets. Besides, Harry was still so happy about yesterday’s events, and wondered when they could discreetly see if Hogwarts had yearbooks.

Pansy, Theo, Blaise and the rest periodically gave Harry confused looks as he babbled happily in between bites of his toast, but they were used to his…interesting behavior already. While someone who had partially been responsible for a lot of parents going to Azkaban, or losing social standing – not every family had been as lucky as the Malfoys – he had this air about him that made all Slytherins fiercely protective of him. Draco certainly wasn’t complaining, and happily blamed his friend whenever his father inquired about the rumors of his “ _friendship with the mudblood”_.

“You mentioned something about the feast?” Harry asked, after taking the time to admire Draco’s necklace, given back courtesy of Dobby (it had remained unchanged in appearance, but he had already used it to send hello in the code they’d worked out through the Protean Charm, and had received a hello back).

“Yes. Every year, there’s a Halloween feast. The school doesn’t really celebrate the old pureblood traditions, so it’s the wizarding version of Muggle Halloween. The food and sweets are commendable, or so I’m told. Don’t try to make contact with Uncle S- with Professor Snape, however. He hates Samhain day with a passion, and always tries to skip the feast (or so he’s told Hermione). It makes sense, though, if your mum –” and there he lowered his voice, “was his mud – muggleborn friend. He wouldn’t exactly be happy on the day she died, would he.”

“I guess not,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I know I said it before, but thank you for whatever you said to him. I don’t want to disappoint my Head of House, first of all, and what he gave me last night? That was – the best thing – I can’t –”

“No need to wax poetic, Potter,” Draco said in a more normal tone of voice. “I understand what you mean. I might be a bit of a prat –” and there Pansy snorted in her pumpkin juice – “but I do not lack intelligence nor powers of observation.”

“No need to be so full of yourself, Malfoy. We don’t need your ego getting bigger,” Harry said, and they both started sniggering.

However, even though the day had gotten to a good start, it did not last. He blamed Weasley wholeheartedly – and the fact that most of the teachers of Hogwarts, apart from his godfather, had absolutely no common sense.

While the day became slowly nightmarish – Uncle Severus made a marked effort in the way he treated both Longbottom and Harry, but he was still in a foul mood overall – and Transfiguration was a nightmare – McGonagall would always stare at Harry with a _disappointed_ look on her face, and neither of his friends (who had terrible self-esteem sometimes) needed that sort of attitude from schoolteachers! – Charms was where it went downhill. He and Harry were partnered up, since when they met up for clandestine study sessions in the dungeons it was only him and Hermione thinking up ways of blowing stuff up or manipulating wards or the like, and this time Hermione had been stuck with the Weasel.

Draco would have been on best behaviour, he truly would have! He would have been courteous, and not have deliberately provoked or insulted the Weasley family, especially since the Twins were…interesting, for lack of a better word. Being the epitome of the spoiled Malfoy heir was fun, and came easily to him, but it was but only one facet of his personality; when he wanted to, he could be the best-behaved 11-year-old ever. The problem was that the youngest Weasley boy was an absolute prat and buffoon, and his favourite target was Hermione. And this was something Draco Malfoy simply could not stand nor tolerate.

Today was on par for the course. While Hermione had learnt to “tone it down a bit,” or in Uncle Severus’ words, “not regurgitate every book she’s ever read and act like a complete insufferable know-it-all,” it was in her nature to excel, and to expect that excellence in others. In this context, Weasley was a terrible partner. After he had almost taken her eye out with his wand, refused to apply her correction (who would ignore such a directive from Hermione Granger? An idiot, that’s who!), and glared when Hermione had successfully levitated her feather, he simply couldn’t help himself.

“No wonder she hasn’t got any friends!” he cried out to the other Gryffindor boys save Longbottom as they filed out the classroom. Draco, pleased that he had been the second to master the levitation charm, and Harry the fourth, stopped dead at Weasley’s words. When Thomas went to correct him, Weasley scoffed, and said, “Slytherins don’t count, mate!” As if that was true, and as if Longbottom did not exist.

Hermione, who had managed to walk beside them, stiffened by his side, and then broke out into a run. Draco desperately wanted to run after her, but it was conduct unbecoming for a Malfoy, and he knew that sometimes his best friend needed “space.” Harry also looked like he wanted to go and comfort his friend, but Draco figured he was still uncertain about boundaries when it came to his friends.

“Surely Hermione knows it isn’t true, right?” Harry asked anxiously as they ate a subdued lunch.

“Yes, but it still hurts. Like you, she’s had experiences with school bullies, and it’s never a nice feeling when you realize your new school has some. Secondly, she’s upset, but also angry. I’ve learnt that sometimes she wants to be alone, so that she can work through her anger without taking it on anyone (verbally or otherwise). I mean, she might like to jab and hit me all the time, but she’s very opposed to violence; plus, if Weasley had only insulted her, then it wouldn’t matter as much. Since he said that she didn’t have friends because the ones she actually has don’t count (and therefore practically don’t exist) he woke up the protective instinct Hermione Granger has honed to perfection. She just needs a bit of time to herself, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Harry responded, sounding relieved. He still looked a bit glum, but it was the manageable kind.

The afternoon was even more miserable, however, since he couldn’t see Hermione anywhere, and he couldn’t deal with Weasley’s carefree face. He wasn’t smug because he’d managed to insult Hermione Granger, he simply didn’t care enough about her to give a damn.

It was certainly an exercise in self-control, and even Harry started giving the Gryffindors glares. When it was finally time for the feast, Draco was absolutely done with the day. Hermione had communicated that she was fine via the necklaces, but it was only small comfort.

Harry loved the food, but had to ration it, and the obvious reason for that didn’t help Draco’s anger (stupid Dursley Muggles!). Then, of course, the day got even bloody worse!

“Troll! Troll, in the dungeons! Thought you ought to know…” Quirrell said before fainting on the floor.

While pandemonium broke out, Draco was suddenly gripped with fear – Hermione wasn’t at the table with the other Gryffindors, which meant she had no idea about the troll. With his wand, he coined a quick message through the necklaces (Harry was making sure no-one saw) – their shorthand for “danger is here.”

As the pendant glowed, and he read that Hermione was in the loo (she told him the exact one), and staying there (safer than running amok in the huge castle) Dumbledore called for order, and his next words made all of Slytherin House splutter.

“Go back to our Common Rooms!” Pansy shrieked, and for once Draco didn’t begrudge her an inch.

“But our Common Room is in the dungeons!” Harry exclaimed anxiously. “Surely the Headmaster knows that?”

“The Headmaster clearly has more important things to worry about,” an angry voice all but hissed from behind them.

Uncle Severus was there, with that deadly blank face that told Draco just how  _ angry _ he was. “Stay here,” he ordered the prefects, “and take a roll call. Make sure all of Slytherin House is there, and if not, go in groups to search the missing students. Do not go anywhere near the Common Room nor the dungeons – and avoid the third floor as well. I have something to take care of.”

With that, he swept out of the Hall, and Harry grasped his arm tightly. “Hermione,” he whispered softly.

Draco was just about to suggest they stay here, as that seemed to be the safest course of action but then Harry poked him hard.

“Look, Neville’s realized Hermione’s not there, and he doesn’t know that she’s aware of the danger! We have to do something!”

Draco mentally cursed (using the colourful vocabulary a childhood with Uncle Severus had given him) and nodded tightly. Longbottom was already hurrying out. The Weasley prefect was the only one keeping order, it seemed, and McGonagall had abandoned her House alongside every professor, so there was no-one to notice a disappearing student.

“Come on!” he hissed. The rest of the Slytherin first years were all huddled by the table, trying to eat or pretend things were normal, and only Pansy seemed to be paying attention.

“Don’t draw any attention to us,” he whispered to Pansy, and then was all but dragged out by Harry (who was good at appearing invisible to authority figures, including the prefects). He didn’t much like Pansy, but they had a shared childhood together, and that was a bond almost as close as friendship was. She’d figure out a way to explain their absence, at least until they caught up to Longbottom and made their way somewhere safe. The troll might be in the dungeons, but Draco didn’t trust Quirrell any more than he trusted Dumbledore (especially with one Harry Potter). It could be anywhere, and while he didn’t think Longbottom was a complete idiot, Draco had as much faith in Longbottom’s self-preservation instincts as he had in Harry’s (which meant, not at all, as evidenced as they tried to quietly catch up to Longbottom).

“Longbottom!” he hissed as they rounded a corner. “We know where Granger is. That’s why you’re here and not in your Common Room, right?”

“Malfoy?” he exclaimed. “Harry?”

“Come on. I don’t know if the troll will stay in the dungeons for long,” Draco bit out, not liking this situation at all – not to mention the repercussions if they were caught. Gripped with a sense of urgency, they all rushed through the stone halls that looked ominous, until they were almost at the loo Hermione had chosen to hide in.

“She’s in there. Pansy’s a gossip,” Draco added for Longbottom’s benefit. And it was true; the necklaces had only facilitated communication; before the troll, they’d (erroneously) heard that Granger was sobbing her heart out in the girl’s loo. However, just as they were about to cross the hall, a horrible stench filled the air. Harry was the first one to notice, and pulled both of them against the wall.

“What?” Draco hissed, but apparently Longbottom knew better than to doubt Harry’s actions. Almost immediately, a twelve-foot mountain troll lumbered past them – and went inside the loo!

“Hermione’s in there!” Draco gasped. This was not a lark – Hermione could literally die! He stood there for a moment, mind blank and heart pounding, and that’s when Longbottom first showed his true Gryffindor colours – thankfully, not the kind that leads to one’s House ostracising you, or saying mean jibes that end up with you hiding out in the loo. Longbottom was the first one to run forward, Harry hot on his heels, and Draco following the two.  

When they burst inside, Draco’s panic reached even higher levels. Some of the stalls were completely destroyed, and there was his best friend, cowering in a corner, wand out and a book clutched in her other hand. It was _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ – her favourite book, and what she’d termed as her “security blanket.” That, more than Hermione’s obvious panic, was what jolted Draco out of his fugue state. The book reminded him of how they’d become friends, and what two little children had faced; they had survived, due to basic intelligence and clever use of resources (not that Dobby was a resource, according to Hermione’s passionate rants).

A calm descended on Draco, and suddenly everything was distant yet crystal clear. “We have to distract the troll. Hermione knows a lot of magic, but we need to give her time to figure out which spells to use.”

With that, he ran to the sinks, and with a yelled _Diffindo_! severed a bit of pipe. Harry followed soon after, and both began throwing things at the troll, Longbottom contributing insults. He didn’t know if it was the throwing or the yelling, but they caught the troll’s attention, and it started walking toward them. Meanwhile, his idea seemed to have sparked something in Hermione, because as the troll roared and lifted his club, she pointed her wand and screamed “ _Diffindo_!” Just as it had worked for the pipes, it worked for the club, and the club broke in half, the pieces thunking on the tiled floor.

The good news, the troll was out of a weapon. The bad? They were just four children with either a limited knowledge of magic, or a limited magical core. Harry was looking furious, and Longbottom was standing his ground, but looked absolutely terrified. “I have to think of something!” he chanted to himself.

“Keep distracting it!” Draco ordered, and threw himself in a corner. He’d brought his bag with him to the feast, and he tore through it now, searching for the wooden box that had been a present from Uncle Severus. Inside it were rows of potions he’d created with the help of his godfather and Hermione, and he quickly chose the vials that would have maximum impact. When he stuffed everything back and chanced a look at the fight, he was relieved that they were actually doing something.

Harry was throwing flashes and sparks of light from his wand into the troll’s eyes, and Neville’s shouting seemed to be throwing him off. From her corner, Hermione was grimly breaking more of the plumbing and levitating it around the troll, making sure all of the available debris was buffeting his arms and face. It wasn’t enough, however, and Draco hurriedly pressed the vials into Longbottom’s hands.

“Help me throw it into the troll’s face,” he panted, and together they threw potions that exploded and potions that made the troll’s thick skin boil, until it was bellowing in pain. “Now, Hermione!”

While all three of them were distracting the troll, Hermione threw herself across the room, maneuvering around the flailing troll, and together they all ran out of the bathroom.

“Wait! We have to trap him!” Harry exclaimed.

“Bathrooms usually have the lock in the door!” Hermione panted. “It’s in _Hogwarts, A History_!”

Not wasting another moment, Harry slammed the bathroom door and Draco locked it. Then they ran across the hall until they were safely away, all the while hoping the door would stop the troll. Now that the danger had passed, the panic began hitting Draco back full force.

All of them collapsed into a heap on the stone flags, and they would have stayed there, despite a voice telling him that they needed to move, to disappear, before they got into trouble, until Uncle Severus’ distinct footsteps echoed through the hall.

Draco dragged himself to his feet, and helped Longbottom up, while Harry and Hermione used each other to get back upright. Uncle Sev didn’t waste any time asking about the situation.

“Where is the troll?” he hissed.

“We locked it into the girl’s loo back there, but the bathroom’s in a right mess,” Longbottom of all people answered. Draco couldn’t force any words out, and instead gripped Hermione’s hand tightly.

“Very well. If anyone asks, I was the one to subdue the troll. Gryffindors, get to your dormitories, and Slytherins, the Great Hall, and come up with a suitable story if anyone notices your sudden appearance. Before, however,” and there he waved his wand, and their wet and gritty robes were clean once more, as well as their faces and hands, “Ten points to Slytherin and Gryffindor, each. For not dying and rescuing a classmate in a somewhat sensible manner,” he added as Draco made eye contact, and opened his mind, allowing Uncle Sev to glean the whole story. He nodded once, and went off to the bathroom.

Draco couldn’t help notice that he was limping, but there were more important matters to attend to. “Come on, we have to go before the commotion draws the other teachers!”

With that he gathered the last of his energy, the adrenalin-thing wearing off, and Hermione and Harry and Longbottom did the same. He and Harry veered off toward the Great Hall, and Hermione and Longbottom went toward Gryffindor Tower. By some miracle, they were able to avoid any teachers, and were able to sneak back into the hall without anyone noticing; the Slytherin students were now engaged in watching a duel between two prefects, and only Pansy noticed as he and Harry joined the crowds.

“Did you do what you had to?” was all she said.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, and smiled, his big green eyes full of sincere gratitude. Even Pansy wasn’t impervious to Harry’s charms, which were even more effective since he didn’t believe he had any in the first place.

Right then and there, as Uncle Severus came back and began leading them to the dungeons, Draco decided to cut Pansy some slack. Yes, she shrieked all the time and was quite annoying, but she was someone who intimately knew what it was to be a pureblood, something Hermione and Harry never would, and she had helped them without reluctance. Surely if he’d been able to break his father’s tenets and befriend a Muggle girl who turned out to be a mudblood – muggleborn, whatever – he could reign in his ire when it came to Pansy.

It turned out that the feast had been brought to everyone’s dorms, and as everyone enthusiastically continued eating – the older students still looked angry about the oversight, however, and Draco couldn’t blame them – Draco headed to his bed with Harry in tow. Together, they waited silently with mirror in hand until Hermione was able to contact them. For once, her face wasn’t the only one in the mirror. Secluded in a corner, Longbottom was beside her, looking as exhausted as Draco felt.

“Thank you, Longbottom,” Draco said, inclining his head. If it hadn’t been for him, they wouldn’t have gone in search of Hermione, and she would have been all alone in that bathroom with the troll; he had no doubt of her abilities, but no-one should face that sort of situation alone.

Longbottom looked really pleased, and then replied back, “You know, we defeated a troll together. I think that means we can use first names, at the very least.” He immediately blushed afterward, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just said, but Draco just nodded tiredly again.

“Very well.”

“What was that troll doing there, though?” Hermione hissed furiously after a moment of silence.

“I heard Ron – Ron Weasley – tell Dean and Seamus that it must have been a prank or something,” Longbottom – Neville – offered.

“A prank?” Draco all but spit out. Hermione looked like she wanted to rant about school security measures, and in fact started on about the lack of a simple roll call and no evacuation policies.

“The thing is, I like Percy (the Weasley prefect) and it’s not his fault he didn’t notice me missing. There is no such thing as a roll call, either; nothing before we leave the area or after we regroup! He’s complaining about it to his friend Oliver right now, as a matter of fact. Professor McGonagall didn’t even come to give us instructions, and instead just headed off toward the dungeons! Something needs to be done! I literally just realized that Hogwarts has absolutely no safety precautions apart from its famed wards and the “no magic in the corridors” rule. Absolutely none! And if there is, we haven’t been told anything!”

“You better get McGonagall to do something about it,” Draco added darkly, “before something like that happens again.”

“If she won’t listen to Percy, why would she listen to me? I’d be her favourite student, except I regularly hang out with you, and Harry - who was unfortunately Sorted into Slytherin.”

“Emotionally blackmail her. Uncle Severus seems to say that she does care about her students – her Gryffindor cubs – which means all you have to do is make up a sob story. You were in the bathroom (make up whatever reason) and hadn’t known everyone was to go to their Common Rooms, and it was only when you made your way to the dorms that you realized. It wouldn’t be fair to Percy, who was absolutely distraught that he hadn’t noticed, if there’s not even so much as a roll call to make sure every student is safely in the Common Room.”

“Brutal and effective,” Harry noted. “I like that. Thankfully, Slytherin House is nothing like that.” Draco nodded in assent.

“I love it. I’ll need your help, though, Neville. As I’ve mentioned, she doesn’t much like who I choose to spend my time with. She seems to like you enough. Just be by my side and act all supportive, and maybe terrified about what could have happened. After all, the troll could have wandered anywhere into the school!” Hermione said, eyes glowing with that fierce spark that lit up whenever she was faced with injustice.

Long-Neville looked at Hermione with awe in his eyes, and said wholeheartedly, “You’re an absolutely terrifying person. Sure, I’m in. I’m…I’m just glad you’re alright.”

With that, Hermione beamed at Neville, and gave him one of her patented hugs.

“About the troll, however,” Harry started, breaking the silence. “Is anyone thinking that it was a diversion? I mean, a troll doesn’t wander in unaided in a school, I don’t think.”

“It makes a terrifying amount of sense, you know,” Hermione agreed. “I think it has something to do with the forbidden corridor.”

“And why Uncle Severus was limping, and was so near that specific girl’s bathroom!” Draco said impassionately. 

“Yes, we should ask Professor Snape,” Hermione said as Neville squeaked in dismay.

“Good plan,” Draco said distractedly, an idea completely unrelated to today’s events suddenly forming in his head. With that, the connection was broken, and he and Harry went to bed, thoughts whirling in his mind. 

There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other; running away from Dementors is one, and so is bonding over Bond in a robe shop. Defeating a twelve-foot mountain troll is another. From that day, Longbottom, whom his aunt had done so much hurt to, was also his friend. (Good thing, as it turned out.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter! Sorry for the (slight) delay. I think this is one of my favorite chapters so far, actually. :)
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for reading this story, and for the kudos and comments! It means so, so much.


	12. Know Thy Mythology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which answers are given, the enormity of a situation is realized, and Professor Snape shows great character depth (and the effects of a near-death experience are felt).

Hermione woke up with a headache.

It had been two days since the troll incident, and she still hadn’t fully processed the fact that if it hadn’t been for the help of three 11-year-old boys, she’d most likely have been dead. That thought sent shivers down her spine, and she grabbed her necklace reassuringly. They’d gotten this pair, her and Draco, from a fortune-teller who’d been with a travelling circus. Draco hadn’t liked it much, though he’d appreciated the acrobatics, but he’d been drawn to the jewelry on sale. The necklaces were more than just friendship necklaces, and Hermione thanked Merlin and God and anyone else that Professor Snape had been willing to teach her more than just the approved curriculum, and that he’d helped her with the Protean charm the morning of Halloween.

It was the weekend, now, and her dorm mates were already up and about in the castle. The quiet was peaceful, and Hermione popped some ibuprofen as she grabbed the letter from her parents (Her friends let her use their owls, so she was able to mail letters to her parents regularly). She’d already read it, but the words brought comfort. The morning after Halloween, she’d known she had to write a letter; Harry had been all about outright lying, or telling her parents the abridged version (probably because he feared her parents would be angry with her) but it was best that she told the truth.

Her parents had been shocked, and scared for her, but were happy that she was safe, and that her ‘good taste in friends’ had proved to be very beneficial. Her parents had told her they had considered perhaps finding an alternative to Hogwarts, but agreed she might suffer if separated from her friends (and they’d been very grateful to Professor Snape, who had been too late to save her but had actually showed up and actually taken care of the troll after they’d escaped).

_We realize that with the wizarding world comes a whole new level of danger and threats, and another wizarding school might just be the same. As well, while we know you don’t trust the Head 100%, there is a lot of reassurance that Professor Snape is there to look after all of you - which wouldn’t be the case somewhere else. If anything else happens, we’ll definitely reconsider, but for now we hope you’ll be safe and happy and that you’ll continue to learn and grow. We are very excited for you to come home for Christmas - and Draco, Harry, and now Neville are all welcome - and we love you very much._

_Mum and Dad_

_xoxox_

The letter finished. Hermione knew that her parents were going to send a strongly worded letter to the school concerning safety precautions, and she’d already had her ‘conversation’ with Professor McGonagall. This meant that should another event happen like this, there would be much more chances that no-one would have to go through what she had. As always, Draco’s contributions were invaluable, and when she finally made her way the Great Hall, she veered toward the Slytherin table and caught a surprised Harry and Draco into a fierce hug. She was so, so lucky she had them as her friends.

“Library later?” Draco asked anxiously, and she nodded. He could obviously tell she wasn’t completely recovered, and while Harry didn’t know her as well, he handed her a cup of warm milk and a list of their plans for the day. Touched, for Harry knew how much she liked lists and orderly things, sometimes, she then made her way to her own table, and swept Neville into a hug as well.

“You okay?” he asked as he had yesterday.

Hermione smiled brightly, and replied, “Much better.” She didn’t thank him again, because what he’d done for her transcended mere thanks.

“We - Draco, Harry and I - are going to the library after breakfast,” she continued as she loaded her plate with egg, toast and bangers. “I know you’ve got things to do at the greenhouses, but afterwards, we have a meeting with Professor Snape. Nothing bad - just about the troll incident. I think he wants you there. He even said something about occasional remedial lessons,” she added in a lower voice.

Neville looked absolutely terrified about spending more time with Professor Snape, who looked quite murderous at the head table, but he told her that he’d be there. “Just fetch me from the greenhouses, and I’ll come with,” he promised. Hermione resisted the urge to hug him once more, since he seemed uncomfortable with any display of affection, and went off to join Draco and Harry.

“I’ve already cleared the yearbook thing with Professor McGonagall,” she told them as they made their way to the indomitable Madam Pince’s domain. “She told the librarian to have some of the yearbooks ready for me to look at - and I made sure that at least one of them was from the 70s, which was when your parents were in school. I told her it was for a personal project. If she asks why you’re here, it’s to help with the research.”

Harry looked grateful, and Hermione was just displeased that they had to resort to subterfuge. Normally, it wouldn’t matter if Harry Potter wanted to look at pictures of his parents, but there was something not quite right about the whole situation; there clearly were people who didn’t want Harry to know anything at all about his heritage, and he’d been deliberately left with someone even Professor Snape thought was bad for raising Harry Potter. So, until they knew _why_ the school had sent Hagrid, and why he hadn’t been given the (admittedly whitewashed) introduction all muggleborns received, it was best that the professors weren’t aware about Harry’s curiosity about his roots and lineage.

Thirty minutes later found them on the floor in a corner, open yearbooks spread out on the floor. From each of them were pictures of waving and smiling Lily Evans and James Potter. Occasionally, Draco would read out from _Nature’s Nobility_ , and Hermione had fun making up stories to go along with each moving photograph. Harry, however, just took in every picture he could find, tracing the edges of his parents’ faces. In the end, however, they couldn’t take the yearbooks, nor cut out the photographs, so Hermione packed everything up and handed the stack of books to an unsmiling Madam Pince.

As they walked toward the greenhouses, Hermione knew that Harry needed a bit of quiet, so she squeezed his hand and tried not to babble. There, they found Neville, happily helping Professor Sprout repot some creeping vine things.

“Hermione! Harry! M-Draco! Hullo,” he said cheerfully. “Is it time?” he asked, suddenly looking as if he was walking to his doom.

“Yes, but don’t worry. I think you’ve gotten in Professor Snape’s good graces - at least his version of that,” Hermione said reassuringly as they made their way inside the school and toward the dungeons.

“Really?” Neville squeaked.

“Professor Snape gave you five points you know, for what you did with the troll; thanks to you, Hermione is perfectly alright. He might not like you much, but you’ve certainly proved that you have mettle,” Draco drawled. “It’ll be fine.”

Neville did not look reassured at all, but soldiered on. Soon they were in Professor Snape’s study, with the professor in question looking at them from behind his desk.

“You said you wanted to tell us about the troll, Uncle?” Draco began.

“Yes. Normally, children ought not to know this, but you were all...put in danger. Therefore, I feel you should know certain things. Firstly, the reason for the forbidden third-floor corridor; before term started, an object of significance was almost stolen from Gringotts. The owner of this object, Flamel, went to his friend Dumbledore for help, who decided the best place to hide it would be...at Hogwarts.

On that corridor, there are a multitude of traps - though personally, I feel like you four would be able to get through them with ease, what with your experience and talents. Ergo - don’t go anywhere near there.This, however, brings me to the troll; I believe it was a diversion, because I believe someone wants to steal the object.”

“You leg!” Draco exclaimed, coming to the same realization as Hermione.

“Yes. Hagrid has...contributed to the defences by way of a three-headed dog named _Fluffy_. Thankfully, I managed to stop the culprit. I do hope you realize that whatever information I give, you are not to act rashly with it; the only reason I am saying anything is that you can stay out of whatever is happening this year. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” all four of them echoed.

“And watch out for Quirrell. I don’t trust him. Granger, Draco, you are free to go. I need a word with Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Potter here,” Professor Snape finished with a resigned tone, clearly not wanting to be nice to those two - but doing so anyway.

Hermione waited with Draco outside the door, sitting down and mulling things over.

“That was some serious information,” she said after a few seconds. “Hiding a wanted mysterious object in a _school_ ? Traps that apparently aren’t as effective as they ought to be, suspicious teachers? What is going on?” Hermione said, voice getting more hysterical with every sentence. _Why_? This was a school, not some shady government building.

“Well, whatever it is, we stay out of it, just like Uncle requested. Nothing good will come with dabbling into things that the Headmaster especially is involved,” Draco retorted, just as incensed as she was. “Actually, speaking of the Headmaster… Harry said it, actually; it’s as if Dumbledore wants people to know about this, or at least a bit of it. Why incite students to check out that forbidden corridor the way he did, and why hasn’t he done anything about Quirrell, if Uncle’s convinced he’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know, Draco,” Hermione said quietly, “but I don’t like it one bit. Hopefully we can stay out of whatever crazy things are happening this year; after the troll, I want nothing to do with mysterious objects or bait or suspicious teachers, or even three-headed dogs… Wait,” Hermione said, sitting up suddenly. Fluffy the three-headed dog was a cerberus, which apparently existed in the real world despite its lack of entry in _Fantastic Beasts_ , which meant that the mythology the Professor on her street had taught her might just come in handy. Like she’d told Draco, she wanted no part in any of this, but knowledge of whatever object and thus whatever motive to steal it would help them avoid what was going on...and an idea was building inside her head.

Just as she was about to stand up, Harry and Neville materialized by the door, both with complicated expressions. Neville looked like he had survived the greatest ordeal , and Harry looked contemplative.

“Are you ready to go?” Hermione asked, making sure her tone was gentle for Neville’s sake, and was rewarded when he sagged in relief.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I know you three probably have a lot of theories about what… Professor Snape talked about, but...I think...could I go back to the Common Room?” he Neville asked hesitantly, after a few seconds.

“Of course! I’m sure it’s been a very tiring couple of days. Do you want me to walk with you?” Hermione asked. Before he even said anything, Draco pushed her forward, so she had no choice but to tell Harry and Draco to meet her in the abandoned classroom they had made theirs.

As they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione decided that some babbling about Greek mythology - put into her head thanks to _Fluffy_ \- was the thing to do, and continued to talk about and Zeus and Apollo and Hestia and Perseus until they were at the Fat Lady’s portrait.

Hermione burned with the need to ask a thousand and one questions, but her friendship with two Slytherins had taught her the best way to let others open up to her (namely, be patient and wait). "Professor Snape told me, like you’d said, that he’d give me remedial lessons twice every week. He says that way, he won’t have to worry about me blowing up the classroom every Potions class. I know that...I’m not the best, even with your help...and that he’s only doing this because somehow he thinks I helped save your life -”

“Which you _did_ , Neville!” Hermione interjected -

“But it’s the first time...an adult has decided...to help…”

“Because you deserve good things, you know. It’s a bit ironic, really, that Professor Snape (who hates teaching, and hates students) does things like willingly give extra lessons, but I think that speaks to his character. He has his convictions, and his faults, and when he’s faced with the realization that he might be wrong, or what he’s doing might be wrong - like with Harry, and you to an extend, he fixes it. And if he’s ever truly rude to you, even more horrid than in class, you let me and Draco know, alright? This is supposed to help you, not make everything worse.”

Neville just stared at her, lip wobbling. “Thank you... And as for the thing with the object, and the three-headed dog, and whatever investigations you’ll be doing - I have a feeling you’ll not let this go until you get all the answers - I don’t want to be involved, but I won’t blab. Whatever happens, I’m on your side.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Hermione said with feeling. “And if anything ever happens, if you ever need help, all three of us are here. That’s what friends are for, and we are friends. Okay?” Neville nodded, reached out to squeeze her hand, and stumbled into the Common Room after Hermione said the password.

About to turn around, she was hit with another bout of inspiration. It was all about mythology, really. The Professor had told her story after story, drawing metaphors and teaching history and talked about ‘magic,’ including attributing myths to certain people centuries later.

Hermione eagerly dashed through the portrait hole, ran upstairs, and grabbed a book with _20 Interesting and Misattributed Myths_ emblazoned on the cover. Looking quickly through the table of contents, she flicked through the book to the correct page. There: Nicholas Flamel, the French scribe who’d been given the reputation of an alchemist who’d discovered the Philosopher’s Stone, believed to create gold and give immortality. Perfect - that sort of object just might exist in real life, _and was hidden in a school!_

“Draco will throw a fit!” she moaned, and then sprinted back downstairs after putting her book back. Thankfully, no-one had been in the dorm to witness her strange behaviour.

“Flamel - it’s probably in relation to the Philosopher’s Stone,” Hermione gasped in the classroom they’d claimed as their own, after they had all laid basic wards and muffling spells.

“What’s the Phil-Philosopher's Stone?” Harry asked curiously as Draco blanched, already making the connection.

“Oh, just the object hidden at Hogwarts, capable of creating gold - and of course, giving immortality. You know, something mostly anyone would want, including evil people who want ‘ _world domination_ ,’” Draco croaked.

“And obviously Quirrell’s after it,” Harry realized, looking as sick as Hermione felt. “He’s the one who must have let in the troll as a diversion, as well!”

“We don’t have any proof of that, but if Professor Snape says that he’s not to be trusted, then he’s not to be trusted, whether or not he’s the one after the stone,” Hermione said, sitting on the cold floor.

“Now that we know what the bloody hell is going on in this school, I vote we continue gathering information, but stay the hell away from it.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’ve had enough near-death experiences in my life. Someone who wants to steal a stone so many covet, and that can be used for great or terrible things, and who even managed to break into Gringotts - since it must be the object Hagrid picked up on the day you went to Diagon Alley, and that wasn’t stolen because it had already been withdraw - has to be very dangerous.”

That was...not good. She’d definitely have to tell her parents, but also in a discreet way (since apparently students weren’t supposed to be aware of the dangers at Hogwarts this year) and process the fact that there was an untrustworthy teacher who may or may not be after the stone, and possibly an evil dark wizard, right after she’d been almost killed in an accident that apparently wasn’t an accident at all.

For a moment, she couldn’t _breathe_ , but then two warm bodies registered on either side of her, and Draco’s familiar mix of snark and hilarious commentary pierced the fog encircling her head, while Harry rubbed her shoulder. After a minute that felt much longer, she was finally able to breathe properly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I suppose I...I guess it’s a lot to process. I didn’t have the calmest childhood, true, and had a near-death experience or two… But the troll was a whole different thing, and just as I was processing and getting better, I find out that our school is a target for evil wizards and fishy teachers.”

Her friends continued to hold her.

“At least it’s something to tell the grandkids, right?” Draco said out of the blue.

“What?” Hermione and Harry blurted out at the same time.

“It’s the kind of story that’s better in hindsight, no?”

“You purebloods are way too focused on breeding and continuing the lineage,” Hermione snorted, and the whole thing was so funny that they all started laughing.

As she sat on the floor of a disused classroom near the North Tower, laughing hysterically with her two friends, Hermione suddenly wasn’t so scared anymore. There was the matter of her parents, and of Professor Snape’s intuition spelling out only bad things, and of Ron Weasley who continued to get on her nerves, and most of her teachers’ bias toward Slytherin and her friends, but she wasn’t alone. She had Draco, and Harry, and now Neville, and Professor Snape who was doing the best he could, and her amazing parents.

They might just be first-years, but Hermione knew that whatever would come, they could and would face it. Philosopher’s Stone hidden in a school included.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Hope you like this one...
> 
> Thank you for reading this story, and for the comments and the kudos - as always. :)


	13. Near-Death Experiences and Quidditch (are not mutually exclusive)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quidditch season starts, Hermione shows her rebel colours and saves the day, and an important decision is made.

Hermione was not happy at the moment, and it had nothing to do with idiot headmasters who used their school as bait.

No, this involved _Quidditch_. It was something Draco adored, just as books were her first love, and it was something that Harry had fallen in love with as well. Even Neville seemed taken in by the sport, despite his dismal flying skills and that terrible flying lesson. Honestly, she had no wish to be sitting in a rickety stadium in the chilly November air, watching the beginning of a sport consisting of people risking their lives on flying broomsticks.

However...she was here, clutching an interesting book on Metamorphagi - a very underwritten subject - in the Slytherin section of the Quidditch stadium, for Harry’s sake. This was his first Quidditch game, and she knew it meant the world to him to see it with his two closest friends (they’d all agreed Neville was safer ensconced in the Gryffindor side). True, some of the older Slytherins were giving her dirty looks, but she had tougher skin than that.

“Remind me again _why_ Slytherin have won these past years if the team is so hopeless?” Hermione hissed as she watched the utter farce happening in the air. She didn’t know much of the sport, but even she could tell they weren’t very organized, and relied heavily on shoddy cheating. To be fair, the Gryffindors were even worse - their Seeker, some random 7th-year, looked completely lost.

“Hush!” Draco hissed back. “We’re better than those Gryffindors, and that’s what matters.”

They were leading, the Slytherin faction cheering loudly for every goal, until a bludger - dangerous flying black ball - went ballistic, zooming into the Slytherin Seeker Higgs and making him crash onto the ground.

As most of the stands cheered, and the Slytherin faction went into an uproar, Hermione suddenly got a very bad feeling.

“Draco, maybe I’m a bit of a conspiracy theorist, but I don’t think that happened by accident!” she hissed in panic. When he didn’t respond, she took a good look at him, and his face was a pale colour that never boded well.

“Hermione, Harry is the reserve Seeker!” he all but shouted. With a jolt, she remembered that fateful flying lesson, and immediately looked at Harry. Who was currently, judging by his pallor, having a panic attack.

“This was deliberate, wasn’t it,” Harry said hollowly as Madam Hooch called a time-out.

“I hope not!” Hermione replied as Draco started leading them down the stands and onto the pitch. They’d have to get him into proper Quidditch robes, and get him the least worn of the school brooms “because the school regulations about first years and brooms is absolutely ridiculous!” Draco griped. For once, Hermione agreed. Harry would be going out there, the youngest Seeker in a century, with one of those completely _shoddy_ brooms that had thrown Neville to the ground. Just thinking about it made bile rise in her throat.

_-_

_It had been their first flying lesson._

_Hermione had been nervous, of course - this was something she knew about, but had never experienced, and it sounded like a dangerous thing. However, she was used to doing quite dangerous things, so she reigned in her nerves, read a book or two, and focused mostly on helping Neville (who was worse off than her, and absolutely terrified of leaving the ground). At breakfast, she babbled about what she’d read, the tips and stories Draco had given her over the years, and made sure to impress that intent was the key._

_“It’s the same thing with most of magic, really. You have to mean the spell for it to work. So when you put your hand over the broom, and say “up” - Draco’s dad told him how the flying lessons worked - you have to really really mean it. When Harry heard that story, he said that he thought the brooms sounded like horses, who knew whether you were terrified or not. Remember - intent!”_

_She hadn’t known if the emphasis on that point helped, but Neville seemed glad to have someone on his side, despite him blanching as they found themselves outside. She hadn’t known Neville long, but already she had been filled with anger - with everyone who had belittled and hurt and insulted Neville until he couldn’t fathom having someone who actually gave a damn about him. In another world, she would have been more sheltered, but her best friends were Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter - both damaged and neglected in their own ways; she was able to see that in Neville too, the more time she’d spent with him._

_He’d been the only Gryffindor in her year to welcome her; Dean Thomas had gravitated toward Seamus Finnigan from the beginning, and Ronald Weasley was an absolute_ prat _, and the girls were all giggly and seemed rather shallow. Hopefully they would mature and gain depth in time, though she had hoped fervently it wouldn’t take horrible life-or-death situations to bring that out. Given she was friends with the son of Death Eaters, and whose parents had been embroiled in a civil war, she was more apprehensive about that than she ought to be. The point was, however, was that she was determined to be there for Neville in a way that clearly no-one had been._

_As she realized later, all the crazy things resulted when it involved one’s friends. The flying lesson had started well, actually. She’d been between Neville and Dean with the Gryffindor contingent, and had cheekily waved to Harry and Draco, who’d been farther away. Just as Professor Snape and Draco’s dad had told him, and who in turn had told her, Madam Hooch had them place a hand over the broom beside them, and say “Up!” Gathering her courage and fortitude, she’d imbued her cry with as much intent and determination as possible, and after a lukewarm try, the broom moderately made its way into her outstretched palm. That done, she’d encouraged Neville, who had bitten his lip in concentration._

_“UP!” he finally shouted, and the broom smacked hard into his palm. Hermione swore she’d seen the broom vibrate in his hand, however, and just as she was about to comment - that didn’t seem like anything good - it was time to mount the brooms, and she knew that saying anything right now would do more harm to Neville. Idly, as she had watched Madam Hooch adjust Draco’s grip - his sulking and outrage had prompted a giggle or two - she wondered if Neville actually wanted to learn how to fly on a broom, unlike her, and was so terrified because he honestly believed he was terrible at everything._

_Anyhow, speculation had stopped when it was time to actually_ fly _. “I have talked back to the police - who deserved it, but still - and have encountered Dementors. I have created explosive concoctions in my school’s lab despite the trouble it could have brought me. I once found myself embroiled in a betting pool at the community centre, and I once defaced a book (though it was the right thing to do, in that case). I can handle flying on a broomstick,” Hermione muttered to herself. She had done a lot of things, she remembered thinking, because it had been the right thing to do, because she’d wanted to, and she had never let fear stand in the way._

_Braced, she’d waited for the countdown, smiling encouragingly at Neville - until she realized that Neville’s broom seemed to have a mind of its own. It had been vibrating even more, and she supposed that Neville’s nerves had only worsened the situation, because he found himself in the air before the countdown ended, and Hermione had known that this hadn’t been intentional at all._

_It had all happened too fast for her to do anything. The broom had risen like a rocket into the air, Neville’s whimpering audible from her position on the ground, and then had started bucking in a way that had filled her with dread. She’d had her wand out by then, but it was too late. Neville had been thrown off. It had Parvati Patil who had had the presence of mind to try to cushion the fall, creating mounds of brightly coloured pillows in what had to be an ancestral spell (since it was probably too advanced for all of them at this point), which meant that Neville sustained no injuries except bruising._

_Just as he’d fallen onto the pillows, Harry had climbed onto his broom and flew through the air, chasing a little clear sphere. The Remembrall that Neville’s Gran had sent him, and that was extremely fragile, or so Neville had told them. “She’d be so disappointed if I lost or broke it!” he’d said to her only this morning, when Draco and Harry had escorted her to the Gryffindor table._

_Harry was someone who knew how important some possessions were, and the desire not to disappoint authority figures (especially scare ones). Just as Parvati had thought of Neville’s physical well-being, Harry had clearly remembered the conversation of the morning, and had executed a death-defying maneuver to catch the Remembrall the way Hermione figured Seekers caught the Snitch._

_In the end, there had been two major consequences of that day’s flying lesson. Firstly, however she felt toward Lavender Brown, Hermione swore to never hold animosity toward Parvati unless warranted by terrible actions. Secondly, while Professor McGonagall, who had been watching the whole debacle and had rushed onto the scene, wanted to admonish Harry, or something, Professor Snape had also appeared as well (she figured it had been to watch his godson’s first flying lesson at Hogwarts)._

_Instead of punishing him, he’d appointed Harry reserve Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team. It had been the only time Hermione had seen Professor Snape act with anything but restrained hatred and fury toward her friend - until the night before Halloween, of course. This was how Harry Potter became the youngest Seeker (ish) of a century, and how her desire to find who was responsible for the sometimes abysmal state of the school and_ shake some sense into them _manifested into a concrete fact._

 

_-_

Now, of course, this meant that Harry, who had only trained with the team a couple of times, was to be the Seeker for this match. As the time-out went on, Draco helped her find the school broom that was in the best condition, and Hermione helped him slip into his used Quidditch uniform, trying to size it as best as possible using magic and Muggle tricks, and spelled his gauntlets and glasses with the few protection spells she had begun to master.

“Look, I know that you have to do your best out there, and that Quidditch is a very important thing to you, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, but just be sensible out there. I don’t think the Slytherin Seeker getting knocked out with a ball Madam Hooch is now replacing was a coincidence, not with Quirrell and our evil mastermind thief. We’ll keep an eye out, of course, but use that Slytherin cunning you possess that allowed you to be Sorted where you are.”

Harry nodded, looking a bit green, and when they returned to the stands - who all looked pleased with the drama happening right now - they took Draco’s Slytherin scarf and from it created an impromptu banner with Harry’s name in flashing colours on it. She was determined to support her friend, which included cheering for him, and helping Draco look out for any funny business. Most importantly, she knew that Professor Snape had not missed the sickening coincidence of all of this, and would be moderating the situation.

Knowing that panicking would do nothing, Hermione plastered on a smile and cheered along with the rest of the Slytherins as the match restarted and Harry took to the skies. Beside her, Draco was helping her wave their flag, but he had a resolute, chilling face that she remembered from the troll incident, the one that had been on his face as he’d helped her escape death. She freed her right hand and squeezed his left, dominant one, letting him know that he wasn’t alone in this. If this was foul play, as they all feared, they’d regret messing with their friend.

For now, though, all Hermione could do was watch and hope and pretend to be oblivious. As Slytherin scored more points and the game became more heated, everyone else cheering for Gryffindor, and the Slytherins deafening her with each score and successful manoeuvre, Hermione kept an eagle eye on Harry. She knew that Draco was scanning the stands, the rest of the pitch, so that they would be covered no matter what came. Hermione would be the first one to admit she had no interest in Quidditch, nor any knowledge, but it was clear even to her that Harry was a class above Higgs. The way he scanned the pitch (which she could see with her enchanted binoculars) and just flew, even on a shoddy school broom, spoke to a talent that needed nourishment and encouragement. They just had to make sure he was in shape to further his foray into Quidditch. No pressure.

The match continued, and Slytherin continued the lead against Gryffindor, and still the Snitch wasn’t caught. There had been a minute where it had been visible, but it had vanished before either Seeker had been able to so much as fly in the right direction. Every second that went past, Hermione’s heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Only her experience with high-stakes situation (albeit in much less stressful situations as this one) allowed her to keep composure.

Just as she hoped that the danger had passed, however, Harry’s broom started to act out.

“Harry!” she screamed, and Draco cut off her circulation as he crushed her hand. For a second, she had a terrible flashback to their first flying lesson, and what that broom had done to Neville, but Draco had anticipated her fear.

“The school brooms are an utter disgrace, but it’s something more sinister! A broom bucking like that, especially with Harry handling it - it has to have been jinxed!” he told her over the gasps of the crowd.

“And whoever is doing this could just pass this off as the school brooms being their usual terrible states,” Hermione replied hollowly.

Up in the sky, Harry was holding on for dear life. The rest of his team continued to play, though Pucey hovered underneath him, trying to futilely help. He was joined by the Weasley twins, even though they were beaters from the other team. Hermione didn’t have time to contemplate House unity, however.

“Help me find who’s doing this!” she screeched.

“It has to be a teacher!” Draco replied, reading her mind. Only a teacher or an adult - who were all in a box near the front of the pitch - would be able to pull this off, or would want to, she was certain.

Together, they scanned the box, and saw Professor Snape muttering a counter-curse, focused on Harry and not blinking. That clinched it. It had to be the would-be thief, because only an evil wizard would be able to cause Professor Snape that much trouble.

“Do you think it’s Quirrell?” she asked, wand already out.

“Doesn’t matter. It could be anyone! There are a few strangers here to see the first Quidditch match of the season! There’s no way we can be able to tell in time! Assuming it’s Quirrell could cost Harry everything!”

“Right. You stay, continue to act like a concerned friend,” Hermione whispered, somehow able to get through despite the din. “I’ve got this.” After all, fire charms were sort of her specialty, she’d discovered the last month of the summer.

With all the chaos, she was able to slip away, even though a Gryffindor in a sea of green usually stood out like a sore thumb. Rushing to section of the stands where all the adults were, she made sure the hood of her cloak covered her face, and whispered the charm for her blue flames. If that wasn’t enough of a distraction, she had a multitude of contingency plans. She’d learnt a long time ago that this sort of curse or jinx required constant eye-contact, as did counter-curses, and if everyone was busy putting out the flames that were quickly spreading, it would be enough for their concentration to break and for Harry to get control of his broom again.

Seconds passed, and from her hiding place behind the stands she saw Harry hanging onto his broom by one hand. “Come on, come on, come on…” Just as she was losing hope, the broom finally stopped bucking, and Harry was able to mount. In the teacher’s box, there was chaos as water flew everywhere and people were stamping out flames.

Professor Snape, she saw, was already back up, muttering once more. Hopefully she’d not only saved Harry’s life in that moment, but given him an edge over whoever was doing this. She’d bet money on Quirrell, but they had no proof apart that he was untrustworthy and probably up to something. She trusted Professor Snape’s word, of course, but he hadn’t elaborated on anything. Jumping to conclusions was not something one did when friends with mostly Slytherins.

Immediately, she started sneaking away, running to the Gryffindor section and clutching her book.

She ignored Ron Weasley’s sneered, “Finally got sick of the snakes?” comment, and joined Neville, fingering her necklace and letting Draco know what had happened in their special shorthand. Neville looked at her for a moment, squeezed her bruised hand, and nodded once.

“Did you need an alibi or something?” he asked. Hermione knew he’d lie and say that she’d been there the whole time, and reading a book, if she needed him to. She knew that the Slytherins, especially the first-years, wouldn’t tattle, and she hadn’t been wearing her Gryffindor scarf. It didn’t seem like it, whenever she was with her friends, but once sitting with a book, she was quite forgettable - a skill she was very grateful for in situations like these.

“Only if anyone asks,” she replied. Again and again, she was so grateful for all her friends. All she hoped to do was to keep Neville away from the general craziness that was her, Draco and Harry - he didn’t need that on top of everything else.

Forcibly slowing her breathing in an effort to calm her breath, Hermione rubbed the hand that Draco had squished, and watched through her binoculars as Harry suddenly stopped, and went into a dive.

“He’s seen the snitch!” Neville cried, positive. Hermione couldn’t see it yet, but she trusted Neville’s more extensive knowledge of the sport, despite his flying abilities. Heart speeding up once more, Hermione could only watch as he went into a steep dive and showed no signs of stopping. The other Seeker had given up, pulling up as Harry continued to speed downward. Just as she was about to call foul play again, Harry just managed to pull up, toes touching the grass, and stumbled onto the ground.

He coughed, and out came a tiny golden ball with wings that he held out. The entire stadium went into an uproar when they’d finally caught on. Harry had caught the Snitch! Slytherin had won the match! Hermione clapped, though the Gryffindors around her grumbled and let out sounds of upset and protest. Her friend’s first match, and he had survived an attempted murder, won the match, and all as a reserve Seeker on a school broom.

Though her heart was bursting with pride, she kept her eyes on him, ever vigilant. Harry might still be in danger. It was only later, in a corner of the Common Room with Neville beside her, and Harry and Draco on the other side of the mirror, that she could finally really breathe again.

From their end, the sounds of a massive party trickled in, and Draco and Harry had matching grins of elation. Hermione was just happy that Harry was safe. Quidditch was a dangerous sport, that was for sure.

After a minute, though, Harry’s grin slipped off a little.

“Draco told me what you did,” he said in a quiet voice. “I knew that it was probably not normal, the broom going like that, school broom or not, and I knew that both of you would be trying to help… But… Thank you. Thank you for resorting to such a drastic measure just for me,” he choked, starting to sniffle. Draco, with a concerned look, resorted to patting Harry’s back and handing him an embroidered handkerchief.

“It was the least I could do. Look, I like rules, I really do, but government laws or school rules are nothing when it comes to helping my friends. Even my parents would agree, considering that’s how they raised me. Better that I get caught doing something like what I did today, than do nothing and watch you _die_! I know you’d do the same thing too. You have, already. Friendship is a mutual thing, you know?” Hermione said, getting progressively more choked up. The entirety of the day was catching up to her, she supposed.

Neville, pureblood heir as well, handed _her_ his handkerchief with the Longbottom crest sewed on it.

“Thank you,” she sniffled.

“I’m going to have to thank Professor Snape!” Harry realized. He was clearly still processing the fact that he had people who cared whether he lived. Though the relationship between Harry and Professor Snape had been much better, Hermione was under no illusions as to her teacher’s temperament.

“Do it subtly, Harry, don’t forget,” she advised. As Draco and her had commiserated a few times, Harry still had some decidedly Gryffindorish traits. All part of his charm, however.

Harry just rolled his eyes, but clutched the box Professor Snape had given him close to his chest. Ever since Halloween, that box and the memories it contained was his security blanket, just like _Fantastic Beasts_ was hers, and Draco’s was his potions and experiments lockbox.

They were all silent for a second, and then Neville mentioned her poor hand. Immediately, Draco looked sheepish, and promised to get his godfather’s best bruise balm tomorrow.

“Go back to your party,” Hermione said after they’d talked a bit more, the tension mostly gone from all of them. “Enjoy it. You deserve it - congratulations.” Harry smiled shyly, especially when Neville went into a gushing agreement, and then Draco ended the connection.

For the rest of the night, as Gryffindor Tower moped and sulked and angrily questioned Madam Hooch’s decision to let Harry’s unusual catch stand, Hermione spent it listening to Neville go on about some interesting plants, letting it soothe her fears and nerves.

She wouldn’t trade this - despite the near-coronary she’d gotten today - for the world.

_-_

In the far-off dungeons, Severus Snape contemplated the darkness of his classroom. He knew that the events of the day had to have been very traumatic for Potter’s friends, but he’d almost lost his composure as well, once safely ensconced in his quarters. Apart from his promise, the only children he could stand thought the world of Potter, who had, admittedly, shown some fortitude today.

Christmas was coming. Hand in a textbook cupboard, Severus Snape continued thinking, and for the second time took a leap of faith. He just dearly hoped that the Potter boy didn’t betray the faith of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! New chapter! I am so sorry for the delay - life interrupted. Hope this chapter is worth the wait! :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading this story, and for the comment and kudos. You all make my day!


	14. So This is Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry gets the Christmas he deserves, a teacher shows actual consideration, and Professor Snape no longer hates Harry Potter (though the boy will always be the death of him, this he knows).

Harry decided, as he rushed into the comfort of the Slytherin Common Rooms after a grueling practice, that Christmas at Hogwarts was a thousand times better than whatever passed on the telly.

It was certainly superior to anything he’d observed at the Dursleys, that was for sure.

“Filch didn’t catch you?” Draco asked, from where he was sprawled in one of the comfy leather armchairs. He gestured to Harry’s general sodden form, one hand on his book about painful poisons. Harry figured that the Malfoy family library was a very dark and creepy place.

“Flint is such a tyrant!” Harry complained, but inside he was glad of his aches and currently shivering state. He had earned it, every last bit. After that terrifying Quidditch match - though he’d never felt so free, up in the air like that - Professor Snape had made him Seeker, and even the captain of the team hadn’t argued. It felt a bit disloyal to his House, but Harry agreed with Hermione; Higgs had been a shoddy Seeker.

Draco clearly knew him, because he smirked and said, “And you love it.” Harry really couldn’t argue with that, and instead trudged off to change before he caught a cold. He usually didn’t get sick much, despite being called sickly by most of his primary school teachers, but it wouldn’t do to tempt fate. Getting horribly sick was not the way he wanted to experience Christmas at Hogwarts.

All dry, with his beautiful thick scarf wrapped around his neck, he threw himself in the armchair beside Draco’s. There weren’t many people here at this time - most were outside in the snow, or huddled in the library for last-minute cramming. However, most of the first-years were by the fire, away from their little corner lit by floating green-tinged orbs. Draco had, from the very first, decided to sacrifice a bit of warmth for privacy and solitude from their fellow students.

“The castle is beautiful, all decked with icicles and the giant trees that Hagrid brought in, and with the suits of armour that sing carols, and the hot cocoa…” Harry gushed, knowing that while Draco had a book he was sure was very interesting to him, he was content to listen to Harry babble on. “And Hagrid told me all about the Christmas feast…”

“Yes, Christmas - or Yule - is much more enjoyable than… Samhain,” Draco sniffed. Harry had heard a couple of snippets about why Draco had always hated that holiday, but after knowing that his parents had died on that day, and what with the troll, he was inclined to share that superstition and wariness.

“Speaking of hot cocoa…” Draco began. “Dobby!”

With a crack! Dobby the House-Elf appeared, in a tea cosy with what Draco had told him was the Malfoy crest. Apparently, he dressed in an old pillowcase when at Malfoy Manor, because Lucius Malfoy was a bigot, but Draco wouldn’t let him wear it here at Hogwarts.

Draco had told him, after Hermione had told him all about House-Elves (sounded like slavery to him, but as always in the wizarding world, it was much more complicated than that), that he had convinced his father to leave Dobby to him. This meant that Dobby was useful, as a House-Elf was supposed to be, but that he was serving people who actually cared. The whole thing felt off to him,  but he trusted Draco, and couldn’t deny he liked being able to have hot cocoa without somehow sneaking into the kitchens.

“Thank you, Dobby!” he said, after his cup was in his numb hands. After a bow to Draco - Harry had thrown a fit when Dobby had done it to him, though Hermione allowed it since it was an expression of gratitude, and she didn’t want to order Dobby around - he vanished, and Harry blew on the top of his cocoa.

“Thanks,” he muttered to Draco, who looked pleased with himself.

“You look like you need it,” he said. “You also need a better broom!” he continued, now looking downright murderous. “It’s a disgrace! As a Seeker, a good - reliable and good quality, never mind fast - broom is a necessity! Even the Weasleys don’t use the school brooms, and you are a Potter!”

“Yeah, but unless someone lifts the restriction on first-years concerning racing brooms, it doesn’t matter how much gold I have. If I was a Gryffindor, maybe I’d get an exception… Or even a Ravenclaw. But not if I’m Slytherin. Professor Snape told me it would take a miracle for the powers that be to make an exception, and when I asked McGonagall - ” with Neville’s encouragement, in yesterday’s Transfiguration class - “she said that there was no precedent for this type of exception, and she couldn’t see why I would get one. ‘There is no reason to bend the rules, Mr. Potter. I’m sorry, but that’s that. If you are on the team next year, only then will you be able to have your own racing broom.’ She didn’t even look sorry, or sympathetic!”

That had hurt, actually, the total indifference in McGonagall’s gaze when she’d told him he had to suffer with the kind of broom that had thrown Neville to the ground. She’d progressed to mostly ignoring him in class, which suited him fine, but when he’d found that she’d been Head of Gryffindor when his parents had been in school, that had hurt. At least Professor Snape had had a reason to not like him, as irrational as it had been, but what had he ever done to McGonagall for her to be like that? It was worse, somehow, than a teacher that just plain hated him.

The absolute outrage on Draco’s face, however, all on his behalf, soothed that ache. Who needed a teacher who had written him off the second the Sorting hat had left his head, when he had Neville and Hermione and Draco?

“That’s not right, not at all! It’s not even about winning at this stage - letting you on the broom you’ve been using is dangerous!”

“Yeah, well, here at Hogwarts a troll in the dungeons is treated like a prank, a death-defying sport is the only sport worth knowing - ”

“Of course!” Draco said indignantly -

“And a three-headed dog is guarding the third corridor. I’m surprised it’s not more of an open secret, considering the Headmaster literally dared most of the curious and troublemakers to see what was there. Just the way he said it! Anyhow, what I’m trying to say, almost everything at Hogwarts is dangerous. I’ll have to last until next year, that’s all. I’m used to that broom anyways.”

“Humph!” his friend scoffed, but had nothing to retort.

For a minute they sat in silence, sipping at their delicious hot cocoas - Harry was sure that Dobby had made them himself, since he didn’t trust the Hogwarts House-Elves with “Master Draco’s” wellbeing. Harry didn’t know enough about the Hogwarts House-Elves to have an opinion, except the fact that their existence seemed to be an implicit thing that most muggleborns didn’t know about (or else there would be riots, he was sure of it), and that it was a good thing that Draco had people who looked after him. Dobby, Professor Snape, Hermione, and now him.

“Oh, Neville is going to Longbottom Manor for Christmas, though he seemed really miserable about it! He said he wouldn’t be able to convince his Gran to let him stay. I don’t like his Gran much, from what I’ve heard,” Harry added darkly. To him, Neville’s Gran seemed to be of the same breed as the Dursleys, when it came to raising orphaned family. Or at least, family that didn’t have any parents. Neville hadn’t said anything, but Harry knew that his friend’s parents weren’t in the picture. He wouldn’t come to any conclusions until Neville felt like telling him more.

Draco made a twisted face, which meant that he agreed with Harry, but felt he couldn’t express his opinion on it. Draco had never explicitly mentioned anything, but it was pretty clear. His father had been a Death Eater, and Neville’s parents had been members of the Order of Phoenix. From Draco’s hesitance when interacting with Neville, and Neville’s hesitance in return, Harry would bet that Draco’s immediate family had something to do with the fact that Neville was only raised by his Gran.

“Speaking of Christmas plans… Normally, I would spend it all at the Manor, but Hermione and I decided. She mentioned that you were invited to her house for Christmas?” Draco asked.

Harry nodded, still overwhelmed by the invitation. “I told her I’d think about it. I mean, I’d love to go...but…”

“You want to spend it here at Hogwarts, and also, you’re scared.”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. He knew Draco understood feeling a bit like an outsider with the affectionate and liberal-minded Grangers, despite him knowing them for a long time.

“Hermione figured that would be the case. She says that next year, however, you have to come. Instead, I’ll stay with you, and only leave for our annual Yule ball. You’re also invited. Father just wants you there because of the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing, but I know Mother is excited because you’re my friend. I mean, only if you want…”

“Of course!” Draco had told him all about his family’s posh Yule ball, and spending one day at Malfoy Manor seemed much more manageable than spending the whole break with the Grangers.

“But I don’t have anything fancy to wear…” They were called dress robes, Harry remembered.

“Trust me?” Draco asked, half-joking. The answer to that question was obvious, and Harry nodded. “Then don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure you’re presentable.”

“Okay.”

After that, Draco spent the next hour or so telling a thousand and one tales about Malfoy Manor, the Malfoy family, and their high-society ball. Harry kept smiling and drinking his cocoa, the ache that McGonagall had caused him lessening with every drawled word out of his friend’s mouth. At one point, Pansy joined them, and Draco made a visible effort to be courteous, and together they kept on teaching Harry all about pureblood culture (through the medium of a Yule ball).

As term started to reach its end, Harry was so excited about the first day of winter break, the castle becoming even more beautiful and enchanting with every day. Outside the grounds were all white and frosted, and even the horrible feeling of practicing with his fanatic team members in those conditions couldn’t dampen his mood.

On the first day of break, Harry woke slowly, cocooned in his silver and emerald blankets. The usual sounds of four boys waking and making a ruckus were absent - Draco always got up early, in order to get his immaculate appearance in order. Confused, he stumbled out of bed, and fuzzily wondered where everyone was. Then he glanced at the huge Grandfather clock on one of the walls, and his heart nearly stopped! It wasn’t until Draco sauntered in wearing his fancy pajamas that Harry remembered that school had officially stopped.

“I’d forgotten,” he said sheepishly in response to Draco’s poorly-concealed mirth, and proceeded to have a positively lazy, and very fun, day. The rest of the break passed in the same manner - mainly, having lots and lots of fun.

He had fun trying all the holiday food the House-Elves were making, stuffing himself silly and getting into a few food-eating contests with Vincent and Gregory (who hadn’t gone home because Draco had decided to stay at Hogwarts. Harry got the feeling they weren’t upset at this development, and was very glad he hadn’t been raised in a pureblood family). He lost both times, and ended with a stomach ache (which resulted in Dobby bringing him fancy soups in his bed, with Draco reading bad Wizarding poetry on his own bed). Harry didn’t regret it. Him, Draco, Vincent and Gregory often had lengthy snowball fights with the Weasley twins, and one memorable time, Percy Weasley (who’d completely thrashed them, which reinforced the idea that over-achieving swots were to be taken seriously).

With no school or Quidditch practice in the way, Harry finally got the courage to seek out the Weasley twins on Christmas Eve. He’d been a bit too preoccupied about staying alive during his first Quidditch match that he hadn’t noticed the twins trying to help, and it wasn’t until after he’d caught the Snitch that Hermione had told him. He’d given two thumbs up and the thank-you sign in BSL (which was the only bit he knew) before being dragged back into the school, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

After a bit of wandering near the Fat Lady’s portrait, and some patient waiting, the twins finally emerged from their dorm with sheafs of parchment in their arms. They were laughing and joking, and when Harry hesitantly cleared his throat, they startled so badly that their papers went flying.

“I’m so sorry!” he said, and hurried to help them pick their papers up. When everything was back in their arms, Harry finally scrambled up and swallowed.

In front of him, both Fred and George looked seriously at him, for once not their exuberant, finishing-each-other’s-sentences-and-making-jokes selves. It was as if they knew he needed a bit of quiet to collect his thoughts.

“I didn’t really notice at the time, trying to keep gripping my broom and all, but Hermione and Draco both told me what you did - trying to help me, and failing that, trying to catch me if I fell. I haven’t really had the time until now...So… Thank you,” Harry finished softly, tugging on his luxurious Slytherin scarf. When interacting with other Gryffindors, save Hermione and Neville (and Parvati, sometimes), he was always self-conscious of his House - there was always something in their face that let him know that they thought him lesser, just because of the green and silver on his robes. This time, he didn’t feel that with the twins (and he’d gotten pretty good at reading other people, especially what with the Dursleys).

“Hey, little Potter. It was no problem!” one of the twins said, smiling a little.

“Just practicing good sportsmanship and all,” the other one added.

“Besides,” the twin who’d spoken first added, “your catch of that Snitch was _inspired_.”

With that, it was as if a barrier had shattered, and they spent minutes that turned to an hour talking excitedly about Quidditch and pranks and the mysteries of Hogwarts, and if the twins became a bit too exuberant for Harry’s tastes, he accepted it. After all, they’d tried to help him despite their respective Houses and the notoriety that seemed to surround him.

“We’re late!”

“We have to go!”

The twins exclaimed at the same time, probably realizing they’d spent a good chunk of time laughing and talking with a first-year Slytherin, and dashed off with an energy and zest for life that Harry really respected. All in all, so much better than he’d feared. He’d have to find a way to repay the twins somehow, because the second thing you learnt about being a Slytherin was how to repay one’s debts.

That night, after a disastrous session where Draco tried to teach Harry chess on his ridiculous set (it was obviously a family heirloom, and its pieces liked to scream and insult each other in Old English, and it was a riot!), Harry went to bed with his thoughts whirling about checks and checkmates and strategy and intricately carved black-and-white chess pieces. Harry knew that Draco was good at chess, and it seemed to be an acceptable passtime for a lot of the old families, but it wasn’t until Weasley (Ron was the only one Harry referred to using his last name) had been playing chess with Finnigan and bragging when he’d easily won that Draco had made it his duty to teach Harry. He could be sneaky, sure, but he didn’t think strategy was really his thing. But it made him happy to learn, and playing against Draco was fun, if tiring, and so he went to sleep drained but content.

“Harry! Harry Potter! Presents! Christmas! Wake up!” Draco drawled at his most obnoxious, waking Harry abruptly the next morning.

“Umph!” Harry mumbled, not wanting to get out of bed yet. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought of presents until he heard Draco stride over; his friend literally dragged him out of bed, and with his glasses on, had longingly looked back at his bed. At first, the huge mound at the foot of his bed didn’t compute - he had no frame of reference for this, after all. But then he looked at Draco, who was back at his bed and happily tearing away at the stack of presents by his bed, and realized that those were _presents_ , for _him_!

He started crying, right then and there.

“Hush, hush, everything’s fine,” Draco soothed, back by his side and handing him one of his ridiculously soft handkerchiefs. All Harry could do, really, was sniffle into the kerchief, and grab the first present from the pile. He held it close to his chest, disbelieving. But after all, he had friends now - multiple friends. There was Draco, of course, and Hermione, and Neville. Hagrid, despite him being Sorted in Slytherin, had continued to be perfectly friendly and exuberant around him, and he often went to Hagrid’s hut with Neville while Hermione and Draco puzzled out ways of inventing new things.

“I have presents,” he said in awe. If he had been a bit more guarded, a little less sure of his friend’s intentions, Harry wouldn’t have let his emotions show. Vincent and Gregory were still sleeping, however, and Harry trusted Draco with his life and with his secrets. A bit of crying wasn’t too bad, nor was the confirmation of what Draco had already figured out. That was the downside of scarily intelligent friends, Harry had realized. He honestly didn’t mind.

“Of course you do! You’re perfectly likable, in case you didn’t know,” Draco answered, and watched as Harry shakily opened the present he was holding. He tore the wrapper carefully, noting from the tag that it came from Pansy, and out came thick, soft, expensive-looking gloves that were perfect for the weather and for use in Potions. She’d also included dragonhide boots with a little note saying _For the ball_ with a smiley face. They fit perfectly, and he nearly began blubbering again. The rest of the presents didn’t help his predicament either.

There was a beautifully carved flute from Hagrid, and some herbs that Harry knew Neville would _love_ , chocolate from Theo, Blaise, Gregory and Vincent, and Neville had given him beautifully tailored dress robes in a bottle-green colour (“since I heard you were going to the Malfoy Yule ball”) the note said. Draco must have conspired with Neville for this gift, even though they were still a bit hesitant with each other. Neville had also included a practice Snitch, which Harry hadn’t even know existed until now.

Then came Draco’s present - or presents, really. There was top-of-the-line Quidditch gear (boots, armguards, goggles), his own chess set - “It’s another Malfoy family heirloom, but nobody uses it. You seem to like mine, so I thought you’d want one with history. I checked - this one doesn’t have any nasty curses or anything,” Draco said with a pleased smile on his face - and a little golden key.

“Wait...this looks…”

“It’s your vault key, for Gringotts,” Draco confirmed “You told me how you didn’t have your own key, which I thought was a huge oversight. I know you like Hagrid and all, but he’s Dumbledore’s man through and through, so I thought it best he didn’t control your assets anymore. I got the idea from that potions class, where you cut yourself accidentally? Which is why I asked for a little bit of your blood the other day.”

Draco had told him about all the different kinds of blood magic, and how dangerous it was in the hands of people who wanted to hurt you. Draco might have been in Slytherin, but he was an inventor, a researcher, so when he’d explained about blood magic and asked for a tiny bit of his, so that he could try to weave protection spells on talismans that would actually work, after being upfront about everything (like how it was also a bit illegal, depending on what you did with it), Harry had said yes. He trusted Draco, and if his friend wanted to take a bit of his blood for whatever reason, he was welcome to it.

“In order to requisition a new key, you need proof of identity - which in the wizarding world is often your wand or your blood. So when Father came to get me a couple of days ago, to finish shopping for presents - Malfoys never order from _catalogues_ , we actually buy the presents in _person_ \- I snuck into Gringotts and had your key made. The goblins are tricky, complex creatures, but you just need to know how to do business with them. So now you can go to your vault anytime, and Dumbledore can’t access it anymore - they were very upset about that, actually, that Dumbledore had had the Potter vault’s key for eleven years.”

Harry looked at the little key that had a chain, so he could wear it round his neck, and threw his arms around his friend.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and put the key-necklace on.

“It has a bit of a charm on it, so it looks like a key, but not a Gringotts key - subtle but still doing its purpose, so Dumbledore or whoever else won’t suspect. I wish Hermione could have helped with the spellwork, but we didn’t have time to go back to the Manor - just to Diagon Alley and back. Dumbledore was absolutely angry that Father is able to take me out whenever, but he is on the Board of Governors, so…” Draco smirked. “Come on, the next present is Hermione’s!”

Eagerly, Harry carefully put the rest of Draco’s presents back on his bed with the others, and picked up a hefty package that had a note with Hermione’s neat handwriting on it. Inside, there were a few books, the album Hermione had talked about before, and some sugar-free snacks (her parents were dentists, after all). Inside the album were already some pictures - pictures of _them_ , and of Nevile, and of Pansy and the rest of the first-year Slytherins, one of Hagrid, and even one of Professor Snape (in the illicit lessons he was organizing, no doubt)!

 _There’s plenty of room for the pictures of your parents, and I’ve enchanted it so that you never run out of space_ , Hermione had written. _And it has protection spells - you can’t rip or tear it, and fluids won’t damage the album nor the pictures._

Immediately, without him saying anything, Draco went to get his box of momentos, and helped him to carefully insert each and every picture. The album then went into the box, which Harry placed next to his pillow. The box was never far from him these days, especially after his second near-death experience.

Then he turned back to the two books. One was a collection of original fairy tales, because he’d made the mistake of telling Hermione once that he’d only watched a bit of Cinderella once when it was on the telly, and nothing else, because the Dursleys didn’t believe in Disney movies, and only knew about the other fairy tales through references. He especially didn’t know the originals, and Hermione had been absolutely scandalised. The next one was _Tales of Beedle the Bard_.

“Those are the wizarding tales I was raised on, though I think Hermione bought a copy of the original - she told me she found it in a second-hand shop near Knockturn Alley. The stories I read when I was growing up are the anti-Muggle ones, which I hadn’t known until one time, after Hermione had talked about the evolution of stories like these, I found a copy of the original in one of the Manor’s rooms - and some of the stories were completely different! I’d have given it to Hermione to give it to you, but it has a mudblood curse on it, I’m pretty sure. Anyhow, you have the original version,” Draco confirmed as he flipped through the book.

Harry clutched the book, knowing that this was part of his wizarding heritage; these would have been the bedtime tales that his parents would have told him, had they not died. Hermione had managed to give him this, but also a connection to the other half of his heritage - the Muggle tales he never really had the chance to read. For a moment, he had the urge to laugh and cry at the same time  - he’d gotten two books of fairy tales, and at the moment it felt like one of the best gifts ever. The key and the practice Snitch being the others.

He carefully placed the books on his nightstand, and quickly wiped his eyes. He was suddenly too full of emotion, so he turned to Draco and asked, “Think we can explore the castle again today?”

Draco agreed, and after a full breakfast they bundled up and trundled across the huge castle, peeking into classrooms, memorizing the layout, stopping at the Charms classroom, where Professor Flitwick was always happy to teach them a fun holiday-related charm, trying to make the suits of armour sing Queen songs (Draco loved that band, and Hermione had gotten him a new tape he could play on the Walkman that they had all charmed to work at Hogwarts), and asking the ghosts fun questions that were never answered in History of Magic.

Christmas day passed quickly, and soon Harry found himself beside Draco at the Slytherin table, Vince and Gregory in front of them, some older Slytherins sitting further up the table, and most of the teachers at their table; the Weasley family was at the Gryffindor table, and there were a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws at their respective tables as well. The Christmas feast was divine, though the hot cocoa wasn’t as good as Dobby’s, and Harry simply couldn’t stop the happy bubble that was growing inside of him. He had awesome friends who gave him Christmas presents, was currently munching on a festive red-velvet cupcake, and quite honestly? He couldn’t ask for more.

“So that was the time Hermione involved herself in an illegal betting pool that had been operating at the local community centre thing, by accident,” Draco said, finishing his elaborate story where Hermione had taken to helping little kids read at the centre, and through an offhand remark (I would bet ten pounds that Mr. Grabby Hands gets taken down a peg or two by Miss Havish when she’s done with him) had found herself entangled in betting on the horse races they passed on the telly and helping bookies with their maths. She hadn’t turned the older boys over to the Bobbies, but had blackmailed them into giving their ill-gotten gains to charity, after realizing what she’d embroiled herself in and sticking around in order to gather information.

Harry was in stitches at Draco’s story, and could clearly see it. Hermione was just the type of person to somehow find herself in all sorts of adventures, and still manage to make the best of it, and cowing every wrong-doer in the process.

“Is that why Hermione knows so much about profit margins and all that?” he asked, wiping the tears off his face. One time by the library, Hermione had gotten into an argument with the Weasley twins about proper business ventures and practices, and Harry had not been surprised at Hermione’s wealth of knowledge - but had wondered where the daughter of two dentists had gotten half of the terms she’d been throwing around.

“Yes,” Draco said smugly. Harry was smug too, seeing as this amazing person was his friend as well; Draco had double the reason, since he’d been friends with her for most of his life.

“Never cross Hermione Granger,” he replied with a smile.

“Too bad people never seem to realize that,” Draco tutted. He then proceeded to glare at Weasley, something Harry didn’t mind joining in. He might have liked Weasley, Harry sometimes thought, in another life, but here and now Weasley was a Slytherin-hating bully who didn’t seem to _recognize_ he was a bully half the time (and those were the worst sort of bullies, Harry thought. If you were in the business of making someone’s life hell, you should at least know that and do it purposely).

“Could I join you a bit later?” Harry asked as everyone started to get up and head toward their dorms. He needed a bit of time to himself, to think and reflect and just be _happy_ , and thankfully Draco only nodded and reminded him to attack first ask questions later if anything happened.

As Draco, Vince and Greg disappeared from view, Harry took his time exiting the Great Hall, and decided to go to the dungeons to do his wandering. It was Slytherin territory, and that always made him feel safer. He found himself near the Potions Classroom, and just as he was about to turn away, Professor Snape walked up to him, coming back from the feast.

“Potter! A word, please,” he said, but he didn’t sound too mad. Harry knew that Professor Snape was proud of how he’d handled his first Quidditch match, and of his renewed efforts in Potions, so he hoped that the conversation wasn’t about anything bad. He hadn’t done anything, recently, apart from wandering in the dungeons after curfew sometimes, the Baron (calling him the _Bloody_ Baron seemed disrespectful, somehow) floating silently beside him.

“Two things,” Professor Snape’s silky voice that could turn so vicious said when they were both sitting in his office. “Firstly, I have very good news. This is a letter of…permission, you could say, from Professor Sprout. I assume she noticed you friendship with Longbottom, and as he is shaping up to be one of her favored students - miracle of miracles - wanted to give you something in return.

“She managed to look up an ancient law that specifically stated that certain privileges could be afforded to a select student by an ‘unbiased’ teacher - as in, not your Head of House, nor the Headmaster nor his Deputy. Congratulations - as of next term, you will be allowed to have your own racing broom. I urge you to acquire a good-quality broom that will last you, while not going overboard. After all, we have a Cup to win,” Professor Snape drawled, now visibly pleased.

Harry could only gape, jaw hanging, at what he’d just heard. A teacher had circumvented the ban on first-years and brooms just because he hadn’t been a prat and ignored someone who was now one of his closest friends, save Hermione and Draco? He could have an actual _broom_ , now, without fearing this would be the time he’d fall, and not be able to hold on because Hermione wasn’t there to stop someone jinxing a broom that was simply dangerous with no outside magic needed?

Thin fingers handed the piece of parchment over, and Harry carefully clutched the permission form.

“I’ve already made the necessary arrangements - all you need is to buy your broom. May I suggest something from the Nimbus line? Their brooms are top-of-the-line, and their older models are quite affordable to someone with the money the Potters have.”

“Yes...Yes, sir,” Harry managed to croak out. Before he could leave, however, bursting with the urge to tell Draco and shout the information at the world, Professor Snape cleared his throat.

“One more thing, Potter. I suppose this little form reinforces my decision, but I truly hope you don’t...mess this up. This is a textbook,” the most feared teacher at Hogwarts said, holding up a battered Potions text that read _Advanced Potion-Making_. "I wish to give this to you,” he said as he slid the book toward Harry.

He gently opened it, and realized two things at once; firstly, this was a sixth-year or seventh-year textbook, and secondly, the spiky writing scrawled all over the book belonged to none other than the teacher staring impassively at him.

“This used to be mine, a long time ago. The textbook itself is outdated and honestly an affront to any self-respecting student, but in it I have written my own corrections, along with spells of my own invention. I have seen you befriend the only children I can really stand, somehow charm a teacher without really trying, and attempt to improve your approach to Potions, though you still have much to learn. It is my hope that this book will inspire you to keep striving, to be better than someone who is arrogant and who coasts on his fame and recklessly endangers his fellow students.

“I have found that my...initial impressions of you were wrong, and wish to...rectify it. Do continue to prove me wrong, Potter. From now on, this is yours. Take advantage of the information found in these pages, and add your own, whatever it might be. I only impose one condition - pay great attention to the notes following certain spells. A lot of these are dangerous, and some are quite Dark; employ proper precautions. Use it well,” Professor Snape finished, eyes glittering with something other than malice. Curiosity, and pleasure at Harry’s dumbstruck face.

“Of course, Professor,” he managed to squeak. “Thank you very much. I...I won’t let you down,” he said, blushing at the idea of a teacher actually thinking he had potential, even if it hadn’t exactly been phrased like that.

Once outside the entrance to his Common Room, Harry, with the battered textbook firmly clutched in his hand, whooped aloud with glee. _Best. Christmas. Ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Early update! This one is a bit longer than usual, because there was just so much stuff that needed to happen!
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for reading this story, and for the lovely comments and kudos! :)
> 
> P.S. About the key - I don't know how Harry accesses his vault after the first book, what with Dumbledore having his key, so I had Draco resolve the whole issue; now not only does Harry have his own key (that comes with protection charms he'll be needing dearly), but a certain Headmaster no longer has any access to Harry's vaults (which is as it should be).


	15. Hermione Granger is a Bad Influence and Other Woes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione Granger isn't actually a bad influence, and Draco Malfoy involves himself in a conspiracy (and decides to Do Something About It)

_Hermione Granger is a terrible influence!_ Draco thought as he ducked behind a dubiously decorated suit of armour, _and this is really all her fault_.

Today had started well, as had this year’s Yule ball, which Draco had been very happy about. Harry was there in his new robes and boots, looking awed at the lavishness and decorations of his home. He wasn’t able to bring Hermione here, for obvious reasons, and it thrilled no small part of him to have an actual friend visiting, even for just a day.

The ball was at night, but Father had come to Hogwarts after breakfast to take them, and Draco had spent most of the day showing Harry around. They raced through the halls, peeked in dusty, abandoned rooms, went through some of the secret passages, and brewed a potion in his room (Harry was very eager to better himself in Potions, and Draco was glad to assist). Dobby served them tea, back in his ratty pillowcase - Father had very strict ideas when it came to House-Elves, something that always made him shrivel up a bit when he remembered just what they were - and they traded sweets and tried out their new presents.

He had been unbearably happy, to have Harry over, to have the ball to look forward to, and to see Mother and Father. Mother had squished him in a hug that lasted for what felt like years, and Draco had savoured every bit of it. Mother wasn’t very affectionate, physically, just like pureblood women were supposed to be. This meant, of course, he treasured every bit of it. Father had clapped him on the shoulder, and had brought him to his study to catch up while Harry had been given a tour by Mother.

While he had seen Father earlier, only now did they have time to actually talk. Father began by asking about everything he’d written, about how classes were going, about his friends, and Draco enjoyed every bit of the attention. He gave the abridged version, of course. It was only when Father said, “Bravo on ‘befriending’ Harry Potter. It is imperative to keep an eye on him, and he is an advantageous ally,” that he flinched internally. Harry was his _friend_ , but of course Father wouldn’t see that. The only real friends he had were Theo’s father, and Uncle Severus, and Draco knew for a fact that they didn’t have the trust and relationship he had with Harry and Hermione. While he knew he was bloody good at subterfuge - he had to be, considering the Hermione-sized secret he was hiding - something in his face must have tipped Father off, because he quickly said, “Making friends already in your first year is a very good thing,” and quickly changed the subject.

The whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth, however, and so when he met up with Harry afterwards, his friend recognized that he wasn’t in the best of moods, and had done the best he could to make him feel better. It worked, and Draco had very much enjoyed the entire day.

When it came time for the guests to start arriving, however, it was Draco’s turn to reassure Harry.

“I’ve never even been to a regular party! ‘Specially not a Yule Ball held at a Manor! I’m going to make a complete fool of myself… And so many people will want to talk with the Boy-Who-Lived, just like in Diagon Alley!” Harry gasped, working himself up into a tizzy.

“Relax. I’ll be by your side the whole time; I know how this works, so I’ll be the one fending off unwanted persons, and letting you know what to do, what cutlery to eat with, what greetings to say - and all you have to do is look pretty and enjoy yourself! While functions like this are always boring, they pass faster if you make it fun for yourself. Between the two of us, I’m sure we’ll manage to come up with something.”

“I know how you operate, Draco!” Harry replied, scandalized. “I’m not helping you blow up a manor that belongs to a very wealthy, Dark wizarding family!”

“First of all, don’t say that to the guests, since quite a bit of them are from the traditional families, who are mostly affiliated one way or another with the Dark Arts. Secondly, that was an accident! I was trying to create a new potion, or at least modify an existing one, like Uncle Severus does. It didn’t go to plan...true - but I haven’t done that again!”

“Blowing up a large portion of a room, you mean?”

“Well, I’m not the one who nearly killed himself trying to get a _Remembrall_ when it was your first time on a broom!” Draco had meant to practice with Harry a few times before the actual flying lessons, but things had been so hectic, and Harry still very hesitant with him (in certain situations) and with Hogwarts in general. The only good thing about near-death experiences were that it helped with confidence, but only because you were suddenly aware of just how short life was.

“We’re both a little stupid when it comes to certain things, let’s leave it at that,” Harry snarked back, and walked out of Draco’s room with a huff. Draco was miffed, of course - Malfoys were _deliberate_ people, thank you very much (even though blowing things up accidentally wasn't) - but he’d met his primary objective of easing Harry’s mind.

Despite Harry’s fears, Draco was able to make sure that his friend had a good time. They met with Theo and Pansy, Blaise having snuck Greg and Vince to the kitchens, and had enjoyable conversations that mostly focused on Quidditch, the spells their respective parents were teaching - Harry happily told everyone what he’d continued to learn from the old Potter volumes that Draco had been able to give him - and of course, complaining about the teachers. Most were not only biased toward them, but not even good at teaching their subject! Quirrell, apart from being on the ‘Most Likely Very Dangerous List,’ couldn’t even teach properly! McGonagall rarely bothered to tell Slytherins how to improve when they weren’t able to manage the spells, and Binns was a _disgrace_!

“Really lucky that you got the permission for a racing broom,” Theo had said dryly. Theodore Nott was a bit of a quiet person who could come back with very sarcastic rejoiners, and was a bit of a Ravenclaw in that he got lost in books very easily. He wasn’t a swot the way Hermione or Percy Weasley were, but he consented to ‘aid’ in some of the experiments (mostly involving potions) that Draco conducted in the Slytherin dorms. Theo had a bit of a soft spot for Harry, however, though his friend refused to share the story of how that came to be!

“Yeah, I still can’t believe it! Do you know what broom I should get? Something from the Nimbus line, Professor Snape says, but not the Nimbus 2000. I know I can afford it and all, but I’d still rather save that money for more...important things! So I need a very good broom, but not the newest model.”

“If you don’t want a Nimbus 2000, get the model just before that one - I heard from one of Father’s associates that they’re finally dropping the prices on them. Still expensive, but something you can easily afford while not being what I assume you consider too ‘over-the-top.’ What do you think, Draco?” Theo asked.

“I agree, but you have to like the broom, whatever model it is. After seeing what you can do on a _school broom_ , I can’t wait to see you on a broom that is good-quality and that you’ve actually chosen,” Draco replied. Theo clearly didn’t get the money issue, but they were all used to tolerating each other’s idiosyncrasies, whether or not they actually liked each other, and that was always easier when there was actual liking involved.

“I can take you shopping, before the break ends,” Pansy offered. “I know just as much about Quidditch as these boys do, and I’m an expert at shopping. Even if it is brooms. We can get you new clothes along the way, and you’ll be doing me a favour - Mother’s harping on about marriage contracts again.”

After Samhain, Draco had made a marked effort to be less judgy and edgy around his childhood acquaintance, and that had allowed for Harry to befriend the prickly Slytherin girl.

“Sure! Thank you for the boots, by the way,” Harry added shyly. Draco saw the exact moment that Harry processed the last bit of the sentence, and was there to thump his friend’s back when he began to splutter. “Wait, marriage contracts?”

“Yes. It’s a lovely facet of pureblood families like ours - we have to continue the pureblood line, and make advantageous connections, etc., etc. My parents want me to marry Draco, but nothing’s been officially drawn up, and I decided a long time ago that I was going to choose my husband, not my parents, traditional marriage or not. However, since I’m not of age yet, I can’t make my parents stop matchmaking in the meanwhile.”

In fact, Draco remembered vividly that passionate declaration. He was sure Pansy would have come to the same decision whatever the situation, but he supposed the timing of it was his fault. Hermione had lent him a Muggle library book, and it was one of those Suffrage feminist books, with Marxism and socialism thrown in there. After reading that, he hadn’t been too sure he understood exactly _what_ it was about, but had kept it in his room all the same. When Pansy had come over that day, since their parents were doing business together, she’d seen the book.

Draco had been off with Hermione, at that point, and in the meanwhile Pansy had holed up in his room and read the book cover to cover. It had thus sparked an independent, feminist streak that he was sure her parents hadn’t approved of, and she’d vehemently cursed arranged marriage since that day. Honestly, Draco blamed Hermione. It was great that Pansy had decided that her life was hers and hers alone at such a young, formative age, but _to this day_ her parents were convinced it was his fault their daughter was filled with such radical thoughts. Hermione was a bad influence, truly! Thankfully Pansy had never told anyone about that book, so the fallout wasn’t as bad as it could have been. That had been when Draco had decided to upgrade his wards and personal privacy. One close shave was enough, thank you very much.

“I personally think the whole idea’s _awful_ , but if you need to pretend you’re going with your parents’ plan, even just a little, I’m glad to volunteer,” Harry said earnestly. “And not just for the shopping thing.”

At that, Pansy swooned, and immediately making plans about when they’d go, how they’d get permission, and all the shops she wanted to show him. Harry was all excited, and even Theo chimed with a reply once in a while. Draco would have been content for things to stay that way, but then he noticed something odd by one of the tables.

His curiosity being what it was, and with his Hermione-shaped conscience ringing warning bells very loudly, he decided to slip away and investigate (whispering to Harry what he’d be doing, interrupting the conversation for a second).

That was when things started to go...badly. Of course. And it really was all Hermione’s fault. Now he was hiding in his own home from a monster who got off on executing helpless creatures, whether they be beasts or _mudbloods_. Macnair, one of Father’s associates. The man had always made Draco’s skin crawl, but it wasn’t until today that actual terror had come into play.

It had all started with werewolves. Draco, good at being unnoticed while still standing out at the same time, had meandered to the table, strutting and sighing and acting the disgruntled spoiled heir. Situating himself near some amuse-bouches, Draco had strained his ears, knowing that any magic would be detected by someone like Mcnair. However, he wouldn’t detect the Remembrall-looking “spying device” he’d perfected over the summer; it was able to record sounds even inaudible to the human ear, and then be available for playback. It was a bastardized version of a Muggle recording thingy, true, but Muggle things wouldn’t easily work here, nor were they welcome. Normally, Draco would merely have eavesdropped, but the glee on their faces had made him take out his little sphere and activate it with a tap of his wand.

Macnair had been talking to some dumpy witch dressed in a lurid pink colour - the Umbridge woman, the one trying to pass all those anti-werewolf bills. Draco had immediately been seized with the irrational urge to hit her toad-like face, and that had been before he’d actually overheard the conversation. Draco had known all the ‘inhumane, horrible’ things she was trying to do, in Hermione’s words, but had never really cared before.

Personally, Draco didn’t have much of an opinion on werewolves. By all accounts, they were very dangerous, and possibly couldn’t be trusted, but most of his information had come from highly biased books and his father, and through the stories about one Fenrir Greyback (who’d allied himself with the Dark Lord). Hermione, of course, vehemently disagreed, and so Draco had decided to be neutral on the subject. When he would meet a werewolf that hadn’t been a pseudo Death-Eater, he’d form more concrete prejudices. However, ambivalent opinion or not, as he’d listened to every word coming out of their mouths, he’d wanted to sick up.

Draco, who’d grown up in an environment where learning forbidden Dark Magic was a given, had always thought of himself as having been desensitized to a lot of the depravity that would make Hermione livid and just sick to her stomach. That had been before the Umbridge woman had talked about the torture experiments she was leading, and how _grateful_ she was of Macnair’s help in “wringing the most pain out of those horrid beasts!” Draco had gagged on a little chocolate tart, frozen and listening to every little sordid detail of those ‘experiments,’ unable to do anything about the absolute horror he was hearing. All the while, the little sphere he was holding in his clenched fist was recording absolutely _everything_.

After a good chunk of time, where the conversation had drifted to those painful curses designed to weed out any persons “who aren’t even real witches and wizards” from those of pure blood, Draco had had enough. However, the conversation must have affected him even more than he’d thought, because he’d stumbled when moving away from that table, and Macnair had caught him all but fleeing. Most importantly, Macnair had seen the little glowing sphere in his hand, and had accurately deduced it had been some sort of spying device.

And now Macnair was chasing him, and of course he couldn’t go to Father about it, because Macnair was a business associate, and he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, and Father most certainly wouldn’t care about werewolves! Or the depravity in people that led them to do all the horrible things he’d just overheard.

Just like in that bathroom, Draco couldn’t think, couldn’t act. All he could do was shake behind the suit of armour, and try not to hyperventilate. That sense of cold fury and detachment hadn’t surfaced yet, and while he knew he had to do _something_ to get himself out of this situation, he really couldn’t think!  “Worse than blowing up a room… What will Mother say if I ruin the ball… Least I didn’t nearly kill myself catching a Remembrall…” Draco muttered, panicking and unable to stop.

Wait. _A Remembrall… Neville… Clumsiness…_ Suddenly, Draco could think again. With a plan, that engulfing panic was gone, and now his thoughts were crystalizing. Neville was always so clumsy, which always made Draco wince in sympathy, because pureblood heirs weren’t supposed to be clumsy and forgetful like Neville was. He’d thought, once, before Samhain and before he’d actually become...friendly with the other boy, that it was a shame his clumsiness wasn’t even an act, put on for whatever reason, like how Bruce Wayne from the comics Hermione’s uncle sometimes lent her pretended to be an air-headed playboy billionaire. And that was his answer, right there.

Clumsiness was what would spare him from Macnair’s wrath, whose word would most likely be believed over his. That horrible _monster_ was furious some brat had been eavesdropping, and in their circles even the smallest infractions could have overreaching consequences. Macnair would be able to spin whatever tales as revenge for Draco’s actions, and the only way for that not to happen...was to put on the best acting job of his life.

Later on, in his bed at Hogwarts, clutching his mirror for dear life and taking solace in Hermione’s face, and Harry’s presence beside him, Draco will feel relief at having escaped punishment. He will recount all that he’d heard, choking on the disgustingness of it all, the entire thing recorded for posterity. He will swear, with his two best friends as witnesses, to ruin that woman one way or another - after all, that skill was part of the family business. Most importantly, he promises to himself deep down, that he will fight so that what he’d overheard will never happen again, even if it takes years and years and years and even centuries. No matter how unrealistic, no matter how Hermione-like that sounds.

Now, however, still behind that suit of armour, Draco will curse Hermione for being a bad influence, for making it so that he willingly goes to investigate shady dealings - it hadn’t just been experiments, but a plot to use falsified evidence to discredit any werewolves still working in anything Ministry-related, thus allowing the newest bill to pass by a landslide (and he knows he has to stop this too, and by the end of the night he somehow does) - and for making it so that he actually cares. Another Draco would maybe only feel unease at the whole thing, and not the disgust or anger that almost consumes him in that moment, and _it’s all Hermione’s fault._

Finally, he will thank his friend in the silence of his mind, because he can’t imagine being deadened at this sort of injustice, and not having the courage to do something to fix this. And then he will find the fortitude and power to leave his hiding place, and to begin making an actual difference, even if it starts with pretending clumsiness and managing to foil a werewolf bill. _Quod incepimus conficiemus_ \- that was the Malfoy way, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila! Here's a new chapter! 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the kudos and the comments, and for reading this story - as always. :)


	16. Problem-Solving Skills (and some rule-breaking)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco deals with the immediate aftermath of his encounter with a certain toad-like witch we all loathe, and a daring plan is hatched, and certain reactions are questioned.

After the Malfoy Yule ball, Draco began having nightmares.

Silencing charms helped to cover up his tossing, turning, and occasional screams, and the silent support of his friends helped his mental state quite a bit, but nothing he tried would actually let him sleep through the night. There were potions that could help, of course, but they were highly addictive when used at the rate Draco needed, and 11 wasn’t a good age to start an unhealthy habit like that. If it had just been the conversation he’d overheard, perhaps the nightmares would have been less severe. 

But there was everything that came afterwards: Draco’s ‘clumsiness’ tripping some of the nastier alarms placed around Father’s study; the scene he’d made when he accused of someone drugging the Elf-made wine he’d ‘been surreptitiously sipping’ and being hit by state-altering curses; the spells he’d made Macnair’s wand do (Dobby had stolen the wand, a task made easier than he’d thought) and thus framing him when Father made to do  _ Priori Incantatem _ on the multiple people Draco had Confunded (again with Dobby’s help); and the files he’d stolen from the Umbridge woman’s horridly pink bag as she tried to argue her associate’s innocence. The files were the worst, and provided visuals to the words now burned in his head. 

The rest of the break was horrible for him, and he spent too much time curled in his corner, huddled in a blanket and staring at a book with unseeing eyes. Harry, on Draco’s vehement suggestions, kept on exploring and having fun and going shopping with Pansy - coming back with a lovely Nimbus broom - but this gave him too much time to think. 

The only time he’d felt that way before was on what he’d dubbed That Horrible Night, when he’d learned just how deep Father’s prejudices and cruelty went. Lucius Malfoy was a relatively good father, yes, but that night had made it so that Draco could never look up to his father and want to be exactly like him, not even a little bit. Repeated exposure to Hermione had just cemented that fact.  _ At least then _ , Draco thought bitterly,  _ there weren’t any nightmares! _ No, just him wanting to cringe every time he saw his Father for at least half a year, and a newfound respect for sentient rights. Nothing like this, however. Nothing like the nightmares, or the righteous fury bubbling in his veins. 

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, and went to his godfather. Uncle Severus had been in a war, had done terrible things, had witnessed terrible things. Surely he’d be able to help, just a little? At least he’d be understanding, and wouldn’t judge, old grudge against werewolves (and knowing Uncle Severus, there was a very valid reason for that) aside. 

“I see,” was the only thing his godfather said, voice soft yet still holding that dangerous edge. Draco appreciated that, appreciated that his godfather didn’t spout platitudes, or scorn him for thinking that an 11-year-old child could get away with what he’d done, and what he was aiming to do. All he did was look at him with eyes that understood; Uncle Severus then stood up, never breaking eye-contact (though there was no tell-tale sign that Legilimency was being used) and came around to him.

His godfather opened his arms, and enveloped him in an awkward, stiff hug - and yet it was the best hug he’d ever gotten, really. Draco stayed there for what felt like ages, absorbing the comforting smell of herbs and potion fumes that had been a constant his entire life.

“It was so terrifying,” he choked. Terrifying to carry out that mass deception right under his father’s nose, terrifying to know that his parents had regular interactions with people like that, terrifying to know that there was nothing he could do about those werewolves who had died, or who were still being tortured. 

Macnair’s complete humiliation - Father had been about ready to kill that man for what he’d thought had been done to his son -  and Umbridge’s vehement defense had made sure that their status and influence were at record lows; it meant that their plans for the werewolf bill wouldn’t become a reality, given that they were now persona-non-grata, and it meant they would most likely not being able to continue their twisted projects without the funding or facilities. However, that had been the extend of Draco’s influence - he was just a spoiled child after all, whom people thought was a carbon-copy of Lucius Malfoy. Trying to do anything else wouldn’t go well...for anybody. Yes, he had been able to save the situation last night and thwart a conspiracy, but that did nothing to chase away the  _ terror  _ and the guilt.

“It was very...foolhardy to be caught eavesdropping on one such as Macnair, but you conducted yourself remarkably. Draco, you were able to completely change the outcome of several risky situations with your wits and the help of a House-Elf. That’s nothing to scoff at. Most importantly, I am very sure that you have gained two new people in the crusade you have embroiled yourself in. Occlumency ought to help. I do not recommend self-medication; I am sure you will face greater horrors in your life that I will not be able to protect you from. Getting used to this will only benefit you later in life.

“Listen to me, Draco. Use your Occlumency to clear your mind and keep the more minor nightmares away. Secondly, you are a Malfoy - so act like one. This will clearly not be a one-time thing - you trying to right wrongs such as these - so find contacts, build networks, until you are able to exert your influence as your Father does. And finally, find something that you love that can never be corrupted by the actions of others. Whether that is brewing potions, or reading, or creating spells, or whatever young children are interested in, everyone needs that hobby or passion that helps mute everything negative, even for just a little bit. Most importantly - you were a true Slytherin that night. Don’t ever forget what you are capable of. Now I suggest you make your way to the dormitory unless Filch is something else you want to worry about.”

Draco squeezed his godfather tightly, the whispered words as comforting as his blanket at Spinner’s End, safe and warm and just for him. He knew that bits of his uncle’s speech would have been interpreted as a bit harsh by some people, but it was exactly what he’d needed to hear. He’d completely forgotten about Occlumency, for one, and Uncle Sev’s advice about a passion just for him was rather good. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled, and made his way out of his godfather’s classroom, through the dungeons, until he was at the entrance to the dorms. Time to continue being a proper Slytherin.

That night, the nightmares and terror and guilt were just as bad, but his shaky Occlumency helped calm his racing mind, and his godfather’s proud words were a balm he hadn’t known he needed. 

During the last few days of the holidays, Draco was able to sleep slightly better, and to have more motivation to do things in his waking hours. He chatted with some of the older Slytherins that had stayed at Hogwarts, and wrote letters to his mother, reassuring her that he was well, but also subtly fishing for all sorts of information. The news that Umbridge had been relegated to some obscure department in the Ministry that didn’t even have a proper name had made his day, and Father was thrashing Macnair’s life and standing in the wizarding community. Even better, the anti-werewolf bill never passed, and in fact, with Umbridge out of the picture, some of the tougher regulations on werewolves were planning to be loosened! Now that was just icing on the cupcake.

However, the most important thing happened two days before term was to start again. Pansy had dropped by the dormitory surreptitiously, there to bring Harry some new clothes that actually fit - her father was on the Board of Governors as well, and as such she had more access to Hogwarts than others did - and had cornered him right before it was time for her to leave.

“Listen, Draco. After your family’s Yule ball, I got to thinking… That book that you had, that you know I read - do you have anything else like that?”

While it had been a few years since that incident, and Draco was confident she wouldn’t blab about him having a Muggle feminist book in his possession, his instincts still on edge from Yule flared brightly. Was this blackmail or something?

“Relax. I’m not telling anything - though one day, you really have to tell me how you got that book! No, I’m asking because I want more of books like that one.” Her face was obstinate and fierce; Draco had no doubt she would do anything in her power to get her hands on what she wanted.

“Don’t bother with the library here. The only books remotely anything like that one are heavily biased and plain...wrong.” Hermione had gone on an entire rant when she’d seen the poor offering of Muggle books, or just books on the subject of women, and had sworn to never darken that section again unless it was the end of the world. 

“If you want more of that sort of book, ask Hermione Granger. Since you’re now friends with Harry Potter, you’ll have to spend some time with his...muggleborn friend, which will give you an in. She has what you want, and more.”

“Really?” Pansy mused, lost in thought.

“Yes. Trust me on this one. However, if you’re looking for something now…” It had actually been part of his Yule gift from Hermione, an unofficial part. She liked giving him books and seeing what he thought of them, as a way for him to learn about Muggles and social issues, but also as a way for him to define his own ideologies - “You can’t form your own opinions about the world if you know nothing of the world itself,” was her philosophy. 

This meant that he had  _ Le deuxième sexe I _ in his trunk right now, and as it was considered to be one of the starting points of second-wave feminism, he was sure that Pansy would love it. The only other thing he had was one of Uncle Sev’s old chemistry textbooks _ Lily Evans _ \- his muggleborn friend - had given him, and he wasn’t too sure it was what Pansy was after. 

“Here. I have a feeling you might enjoy this. Just remember...You didn’t get this from me. Don’t ruin it, either! I will need it back at some point.”

And Pansy’s smile as she took in the title, and the blurb - though it was in French, it was a language she was as familiar with as he was - and her  _ gratitude _ , that had gone a long way to soothe his entire being. There was just something about being able to do something for people, even if it was as small as giving them a book, that calmed him down and helped block the ache he’d been carrying since the Yule ball. That night, he had absolutely no nightmares.

 

_ - _

Harry was actually glad that term was starting tomorrow, he realized as he woke on the last day of break.

Draco had been in a terrible state since his parents’ ball, and was only now beginning to look less haunted. Harry hoped that with the work and all the crazy things that seemed to pass for normal around here, it would help his friend find his equilibrium. However, Harry couldn’t deny that this had been the best time of his life, exploring the castle, his friends, presents, shopping with Pansy - and wasn’t that an experience!

“You look a bit distracted,” Draco said at breakfast, as he daintily ate his crêpes (Dobby had told them the Hogwarts House-Elves liked to branch out during the holidays). 

That was true. Yes, he was so happy, but he wasn’t used to being happy in the first place, and it was a strange state to be in. Besides, he was worried about his friend, and worried about a government that would employ those...monsters that Draco had barely been able to outwit. And those werewolves who had been used in terrible ways! It was all too much, all of a sudden, so Harry made his excuses and wandered around the castle, trying to sort out his own feelings. 

He was just about to go back to the dorms, maybe start another chess match with Draco, when he noticed a suspiciously open classroom door. It was a small one, likely abandoned, and his curiosity led him to enter it. There, smack in the middle of what looked to be a storage space was an intricately carved mirror. On the top of the frame was an inscription, that upon further squinting, went something along the lines of,  _ ERISED STRA EHRU OYT UBE CAFRU OYT ON WOHSI _ . 

“What?” Harry mumbled. Was this some kind of code, or ancient language? Most half-bloods and purebloods learnt a lot of foreign languages as part of their upbringing, so perhaps it was one of those? Still very curious, Harry walked until he was facing the centre of the mirror, promising to himself that if anything seemed off he would run out of there, considering all he’d heard about the dangers of cursed objects.

When he saw a red-haired woman and a messy-haired man with round glasses just like his, both smiling at him, Harry jumped back in surprise, heart hammering in absolute shock. There was no doubt as to who these people were; he had photographs, and a brain.

Why would some mirror with a strange inscription in an abandoned room show him his dead parents? Yes, he  _ desperately  _ wanted anything of theirs that he could get his hands on, but this was beginning to feel like that bludger that had knocked Higgs out and forced him to play Seeker in the first match of the Quidditch season - the same match where he had been almost killed, or at least gravely injured.

Besides, these people looked nothing like the photos Draco and Professor Snape had given them - too serious, too...different. This whole thing was making him feel sick, actually. Slowly and carefully, Harry walked backwards from the mirror, intent on escaping. Seeing his parents, older than all the pictures he had of them, smiling and waving, was at once exhilarating and heart-wrenching, and the cautious and cynical part of him that Slytherin was nurturing made him edge out of the room, and head toward his dorm at a dead run.

Once on his bed, he was able to look at  _ actual  _ pictures of his mum, and the few he had of James Potter, and that helped untangle all the feelings twisting inside of him. That mirror, it seemed like it was designed to ensnare people, and not in a good way. No, the whole situation was much too sketchy for him; Harry would rather stay with the pictures and mementos he already had than risk getting cursed by some weird mirror.

When Draco came back from wandering outside, pale face pink from the cold, Harry told the entire story in one breath, feeling relieved that he had people he could confide in.

“You were entirely right in your assessment of the situation,” Draco said. “A lot of objects in the wizarding world are cursed one way or another, and a mirror that shows one’s dead parents… No, best not to risk that. If you hadn’t had anything of your parents, I would understand taking that risk… But there is a point when you have to use your sense of self-preservation, as Uncle Severus would say.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, glad to have a second opinion. From the way Draco was looking, Harry could tell that there were a lot of bad things that this mirror could be doing to people, and he would rather take the opinion of someone who’d grown up knowing about all these cursed and dangerous objects. Besides, as already mentioned, he had a box full of pictures and other bits and bobs that came from more reputable sources than a mirror in a castle that boasted of three-headed dogs, hidden Philosopher’s stones, and troll attacks. 

They spent their last day huddled beside the fire for once, laughing and playing chess and talking about their favourite holiday foods. 

Term began the next day, and pretty soon they were all swamped in work and activity. There was Quidditch practice, in conditions that continued to get worse, and homework, and distant teachers. Hufflepuff played Gryffindor, and Gryffindor barely squeaked past. 

This time, in order to make sure Quirrell or whomever wouldn’t try to off him again, Professor Snape had given him the Potter family ring (who knew where he’d gotten it, but Harry wasn’t inclined to question his potion teacher’s methods) and told him to activate the protection spells found on it. Draco had helped, actually knowing how a pureblood patriarch’s ring worked, and so Harry had watched the match squished between Draco and Pansy, secure with the protection spells on his vault key around his neck and on the beautiful but ostentatious ring now on the second finger of his right hand. 

Of course, while nothing happened during the match, or afterward, things were never quiet at Hogwarts. There was more exploring, some sneaking around, and testing of the wards and boundaries. And of course, the next real trouble arrived, this time in the form of a dragon named Norbert. 

It was partly Hagrid’s fault, given that he’d won the egg off a stranger in a “very disreputable pub suitable for the lowest riff-raff” in Malfoy-speak, and had decided to raise it in his wooden hut! Harry had seen a Norwegian Ridgeback hatch, which was truly something spectacular, but it became clear that Harry would have to do something before Hagrid got into serious trouble. Already with the British government, Harry had heard all about false convictions, especially in places like America where they had the death penalty. How much worse would it be in the sort of government that Draco flippantly dismissed all the time? No, getting Norbert away before Hagrid could take the fall was paramount, but the question was, how?

Harry had worked quite a bit to make sure he didn’t fall in Professor Snape’s regard, and getting caught trying to sneak a dragon out seemed a very poor way to repay for the textbook he treasured and read over every night, despite not understanding everything in it just yet. 

It was Neville that gave them the inklings of a plan. Through a general consensus, it had been decided to attempt to keep Neville out of the trouble that usually seemed to follow them - he was much too precious to get into the trouble they always seemed to risk getting involved in. However, they did tell him about mostly everything, if only to make sure he knew that he wasn’t being ignored or left behind. Harry knew all about that, and the  _ thought  _ of doing it to Neville made him sick to his stomach. 

“His house is going to burn down, or he’ll be thrown into prison! With those...dementor things!” Harry moaned one day, as they sat in the classroom that had become theirs. “Hagrid is my friend. We need to fix this, or Hagrid will get into trouble, and who knows what they’ll do to Norbert -” Hermione had absolutely terrified him with horror stories of the abuse of magical animals. “If only we knew people! But only Draco has contacts in the wizarding world, and his parents certainly shouldn’t know that he’s sort-of befriended Hagrid, and is planning on helping us smuggle his illegal dragon out of Hogwarts. Your Gran wouldn’t be of much help, either. The point is to get out of trouble, not to invite more in!”

Neville nodded in a sympathetic way, idly watching Hermione and Draco trying to magically chuck objects at each other in one of their experiments. 

“Well...if you knew a Weasley that could be trusted, I heard Ron say that one of his brothers worked with dragons. In Romania, I think he said?”

“We’re certainly not saying anything to  _ Ron _ ,” Harry said bitterly. It wasn’t that he hated Weasley, but Harry’s first impression of someone who had very strict prejudices and who couldn’t seem to realize when he was in the wrong hadn’t gone away at all. Weasley was still a bear to Hermione, and the only Gryffindor boy that Neville seemed comfortable with was Dean Thomas, and Harry bet that Weasley had something to do with that. 

“What about him?” Hermione said, making a pillow float mid-air. In front of her, Draco was doing the same, except it was obvious he was clenching his jaw in that way where all he wanted to say was something very derogatory and very vicious. Harry had noticed that about Draco; when he couldn’t think of anything good to say, when all he could think of was just too... _ mean _ , he opted to stay silent instead of speaking. That was Hermione’s influence, and Harry respected that Draco could, if not be open to certain other perspectives, at least not spout vitriol like the Dursleys or like Weasley or like some of the harder, angrier Slytherins (and even some Ravenclaws). 

Neville repeated what he’d told Harry, and even before he was finished they could all see that lightbulb moment that made Hermione’s eyes go wide with a plan or an idea.

“We’re not going to be saying anything to him, of course… But  _ Percy  _ is pretty trustworthy. He helped us, even if it was indirectly, with that roll call thing after the troll, and he cares about his studies, but also the students - which I think would translate to Hagrid as well. If I were to ask him… He might not help us break school and wizarding world rules, but I really don’t think he’s the type to blab, especially if the scenario was...hypothetical. At the very least, he could help us come up with an alternative. That’s brilliant, Neville!”

And so the daring plan was formed. For the first time, it was something they were able to take their time to formulate, not some split-second thing like with the troll or his broom or with Draco’s situation with that horrible Macnair. 

Firstly, Hermione approached Percy Weasley. They had all decided to tell Percy as much of the truth as possible, since they  _ were  _ implicating him in their dragon-smuggling scheme; funnily enough, Percy actually agreed with their plan, which wasn’t exactly what Harry would have expected from a prefect like him. However, it did help that Hermione and Percy were often seen together arguing about academic things, and that he felt he owed a debt to Hermione after overlooking her on Halloween. So, instead of telling them what a horrible idea it was, and did they want to be expelled, he penned a brilliantly-worded letter to Charlie Weasley, and provided the patrolling schedule for the prefects and Head Boy and Girl.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this, honestly… But here it is. Do what you will with it. I had nothing to do with this, understand? I have no knowledge of the foolhardy plan that three first-years are trying to concoct.”

Thus began the second phase of the plan. They still had a bit of time, especially since Hagrid really didn’t want to part with Norbert - Hermione had begun to wonder if it ought to be Norberta, actually, but that was a different matter altogether - and so Hermione, overachieving swot that she was, managed to finagle a special project with Professor Flitwick. Professor Snape probably wouldn’t want anything to do with the whole thing, McGonagall still seemed a bit wary when it came to Hermione, and while Professor Sprout might have been a help, her specialty was the greenhouses outside. No, they needed it to be inside.

This part was actually Draco’s brainchild, though Hermione of course had made all the plans and schedules. Hermione would begin an extra-curricular project with Professor Flitwick, one that would force her to wander the school after hours. This would not only serve to further her education and integration with the nicer teachers - “which is very important, considering the company she keeps and how some professors have  _ issues  _ with that,” Draco said - but would give them eyes and ears on the ground. 

They didn’t have a magical map of the school, nor a cloak that would make them invisible - “there is the Disillusionment Charm, but that’s advanced magic and probably not very helpful in our case,” - so they needed Hermione to have a legitimate reason to be out after curfew, so she could help them avoid Filch and others, and keep them updated on the state of things, all through the necklaces. 

Harry would be the one to bring Norbert/Norberta to the Astronomy Tower, where Charlie and his group would meet them. It would have made more sense to hand over the dragon by the gates, but they had powerful detection magic; neither Draco nor Hermione knew exactly what kind of wards Hogwarts had, but it was somehow safer to have the meeting take place far away from the borders of the school, which were apparently the most sensitive. Draco would come along, as backup/distraction. Neville would stay in Gryffindor Tower, and find a way to alibi at least him or Draco if it came down to it. 

Harry had read quite a few books in the public library, when escaping Dudley and his gang, and he didn’t need to be a genius to know that plans didn’t always work out. “No plan  of operations reaches with any certainty beyond the first encounter with the enemy’s main force,” Hermione even quoted from Helmuth van Moltke, whoever that was. However, the surprising this was that the plan actually worked - almost without a hitch!

Hermione had begun her project, which involved testing the wards of Hogwarts at different times in the day and the relation with protection charms and their efficacy-whatnot, and on the third night Charlie was slated to fly to Hogwarts. Pansy, who was happily reading  _ War and Peace _ , borrowed from Hermione, turned a blind eye when they snuck out early, just before curfew, and hunkered down in their special classroom, pretending to be studious. Neville had given Harry a hug of encouragement right after supper, which had boosted his spirits enormously.

Finally, after what seemed to be ages, Draco got Hermione’s message; it was time to start. They began carefully walking through the hallways, using Percy’s information to duck the patrols, and even the Baron popped up and decided to help them (which was something he seemed to do every once in a while), whispering hoarse instructions as to when to duck behind a tapestry or a corner. Between them was a cage containing Norbert/Norberta, covered with silencing and anti-detection spells hopefully not too strong nor too weak; Dobby had popped the cage over from Hagrid’s while they had been waiting for Hermione’s cue, and though he wasn’t visible, Draco assured him that Dobby was using his House-Elf magic to help shield them.

“He’s not tied into the wards,” Draco explained, out of breath, as they reached the top of the Astronomy Tower, “so he can’t do too much without detection. However, he can manipulate the wards of Malfoy Manor to make it appear as if I was there the entire time, even if I was, say, at some protest thing in London instead.” Dobby had actually been very eager to help, having befriended Hagrid over the Christmas hols. Apparently, Hagrid was now a friend of Dobby’s. 

“Now all we have to do is wait,” Harry said, breath misting in the cold air. 

As they waited, Draco fiddled with a box that was slowly becoming more familiar. Draco had, in his box of potion vials, quite a few trick stuff - explosions, the magical equivalent of pepper spray, and a powder that clouded the air for a few minutes, allowing you time to get away. 

Harry thought it was brilliant, especially since Draco had modified the recipes of most of those to suit his needs, and they’d actually gotten to use the powder stuff on Peeves, who had noticed two first-years out of bounds after curfew, but who hadn’t had the time to see who they actually were. 

If Hermione was the researcher and the mastermind, and Harry distraction or runner or the one who actually carried out the plans (even before the Norbert thing, they  _ had  _ been doing a bit of rule-bending), Draco was the inventor. Today at lunch, Harry had made the joke that Hermione was M, he was Bond, and that Draco was Q, and his friend had blushed light pink with what to him was high praise - and suddenly it wasn’t that much of a joke anymore. 

After all, Harry had bonded with Draco over James Bond, amongst other things, and they  _ were  _ planning a dragon-smuggling operation in order to spare Hagrid all sorts of trouble - so why not use iconic code names? Hermione had quite liked that too, even though Neville had been completely lost.

Soon, silhouettes on brooms broached the wards - apparently doing that was a skill Charlie Weasley had learned in his line of work - and landed on the Tower, right in front of them.

The redhead that had to be Charlie eyed their silver-and-green robes and scarves, but only asked for the dragon.

“Here. Ha - the person who had this dragon made sure they had food and things to tear and all that,” Harry said, voice a bit shaky from all the adrenaline still pumping in his veins. This sort of subterfuge, sneaking around the school like that, was hard on the nerves!

Charlie and his comrades attached the large cage with a special harness, gave them a friendly nod, and flew off into the night. 

A huge weight lifted off Harry’s shoulders. He was so relieved that Hagrid wouldn’t be going to prison for breaking the laws on dragons…

“Now to get back without being caught,” Draco muttered. Thus began the next phase, which was getting back to the dorms undetected. Dobby could have popped them back in their beds, but they had all agreed it was too risky - what if Dumbledore or McGonagall monitored House-Elf activity? It was one thing getting messages across, but apparently transporting people took a bit more effort and energy - and the more likely it was to be detected. They had already risked detection by getting Norbert/Norberta in the castle, and Draco hadn’t wanted to push their luck. 

Therefore, they had to make their way to the dungeons the hard way, the Baron helping them once more, and Hermione relaying useful messages through Draco every once in a while. 

That night - or early morning, depending on one’s perspective - Harry collapsed in his bed, tired and still a bit nervous, but most important happy they had actually gotten away with it. It was possible that Dumbledore had realized what they had been doing, but with all their planning and precautions, Draco had been certain that their after-curfew activity couldn’t be proven. 

That was all that mattered. Norbert/Norberta was safe, Hagrid - and his house - was safe, and he and his friends had proven themselves capable of creating more long-term plans that hadn’t failed them this time. Yes, he was aware that one day, they wouldn’t be so lucky, but it was nice to have done something helpful and for it not to fail completely.

Harry fell asleep happy, not knowing that a certain headmaster was in his study, too lost in his own thoughts -  _ Why had the boy reacted to the mirror that way? _ \- to notice that a dragon had been smuggled out of Hogwarts by two of his students.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila! A new chapter! Apologies for the delay...
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for the kudos and comments! :)


	17. Don't Anger the Potions Master - You'll Regret It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quirrell makes a Bad Decision, Severus Snape realizes just how in deep he is, and Harry Potter begins making good life decisions (while still managing to get himself into near-death experiences).

On days like these, Severus Snape questioned how he had ended up here in life.

He was a ridiculously-overqualified _professor_ in a school that held painful memories, teaching absolute dunderheads that had no respect for the subtle science and exact art of potion-making, was even now preparing for when the Dark Lord would rise again and thus force him to continue his role as a spy, and was giving secret lessons to three first-years _by his own free will_!

Even now he was poring over some obscure text concerning the mind arts, because he was in the process of teaching them to two precocious children. For him, Occlumency especially had always been somewhat instinctual, and to teach Draco and Hermione, he had had to do some research of his own. The whole thing was positively surreal, when he actually stopped to think about it. After all, he was _willingly teaching_ , and somehow along the way Severus had decided to teach Harry Potter as well.

Not only being a proper Head of House for him, or not being too harsh during class - no, Severus was planning on teaching a _Potter_ Occlumency, and he knew that it would lead to more than helping Lily’s child shield his mind. Severus, after coming to this realization shortly after the hols, had just known he’d be teaching him dueling and and proper Defence Against the Dark Arts, and perhaps even the Dark Arts themselves (Harry was a Slytherin after all, and the Dark Lord was not gone forever, and learning something was sometimes the only way to defend oneself against it). It had been that way with Draco and Hermione, and one thing that Severus always tried not to do was lie to himself. Therefore, here he was, spending his precious free time perusing a book with the intention of teaching impressionable children things Albus most likely wouldn’t approve of, and he couldn’t even muster any anger about it all.

Beside him bubbled a cauldron of Skele-Gro, intended for the infirmary. His quarters were nice and peaceful, and Severus was looking forward to a quiet night of reading and brewing, before he had to face the dunderheads in the morning. While final exams had already finished, his fourth-years needed to come in to finish off their end-of-the-year project, a fiendishly difficult one he’d taken great pleasure assigning them. As always, he was determined to uncover those who had the potential to be better; he could suffer teaching only the best at NEWTS level.

Just as he was about to turn his attention to a Potions journal that only published yearly, for it was always important to keep abreast of new developments, his honed senses began to tingle - the dread that always came before something inevitably went wrong. Severus dropped the subscription on his desk as a flash of pain went through him, making him clasp his left arm in habit. The Dark Mark - it had never vanished, yet only this year had it begun to bother him, the way it had when in the Dark Lord’s presence. _Something was terribly wrong_! all his senses screamed at him.

Before he could plan out a course of action, the wards surrounding his office began to chime, and Severus immediately recognized the familiar signature of Draco. They had planned no lessons, no meetings. As far as he knew, Draco was supposed to be celebrating the end of exams with his friends. A sense of foreboding spread through him. The Dark Lord was somehow involved in the absolute bloody clusterfuck happening this year, and that meant that Harry Potter would be snared in the web he hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of. And if something involved Harry Potter, it involved Hermione Granger, and thus his godson.

“Uncle!” Draco said, bursting in, face white as a sheet. “Something terrible’s happened!” Without even thinking, the potion was in stasis, the book thrown aside, and he was standing up, wand in hand. His paranoid instincts had been right - oh how he _loathed_ it when that happened!

“Talk,” he snapped, alarmed by Draco’s scared look. In his mind, all manner of terrible scenarios flashed through his mind.

“It…it was Quirrell,” his godson gasped, “he’s taken Neville and is using him as bait for Harry!”

“The stone,” Severus muttered, the familiar blankness of Occlumency settling over him. Frankly, Severus had had his suspicions at Albus’ meddling, along with those about Quirrell. Because of his warning, Draco and his friends had stayed well away from the third-floor corridor and the Philosopher’s Stone, which meant that _Quirrell_ , because he needed Harry Potter – and that something had to involve the Dark Lord, had to have a connection with the prickling of his Mark - had to resort to coercion.

“Come,” Severus said shortly, knowing that Draco wouldn’t want to be sitting in his quarters while his friends were in danger, and recognizing that his godson _could_ handle himself in fraught situations. If he left Draco there, his godson would refuse to remain still, and he couldn’t protect him if he didn’t have him in his sights. This was what caring about people did to you - yet it was something Severus would _never trade_.

Underneath the blankness of Occlumency and the advent of battle, there was fury bubbling in his veins. One of his worst flaws was his temper, and right now it was reaching a boiling point. That sneaking, pathetic Quirrell had not only slunk around the only home he’d ever had for the entire year, but he had been responsible for Harry Potter almost dying, and had let the troll in that had almost succeeding in killing Hermione Granger. And now he’d kidnapped Neville Longbottom to lure his godson and the rest of his friends, all for some damned bloody _stone_! He wasn’t about to stand for that. _Especially with the Dark Lord thrown in the mix._

Soon, they were before Fluffy, and Severus enchanted the harp that was already there, jumping into the trapdoor with Draco. It was quick work to take care of the Devil’s Snare, and at the room with the keys, Severus didn’t even need a broom to fly. Behind him was Draco, keeping an eye out, and already having sent his eager House-Elf to owl _Albus_ , who was half responsible for all this. They finally caught up to Harry and Hermione, who were staring at Minerva’s animated chessboard with wands steady but eyes full of panic.

Salazar, they looked so tiny and so pale! What was with this school, that its students always seemed to be endangered so! It was only due to the blankness and intense focus of his mind that Severus hadn’t gone completely insane. This was his school, and his students! How dare anyone mess with that!

“Professor!” Harry – who was continuing to show his true colours, for _Potter_ wouldn’t have rushed to the rescue of his friends yet manage to gain backup, because he knew an 11-year-old wasn’t a match for Quirrell and his master – said. “Neither of us knows much about chess, but Quirrell’s got Neville!”

“Yes, I gathered as much. From now on, all of you listen to me. If I tell you to do something, then you will do it, understand? Quirrell is much more than just a teacher who wants the stone,” Severus said, voice low and cold. He had had his suspicions even before tonight – the way that his Mark had begun to darken slightly, and tingle, in a way it hadn’t done since that fateful Halloween, and Draco’s complaining of Harry’s scar paining him almost always solely in Defense – and then Hagrid had come to him about the unicorns, and he’d known.

“Somehow, he’s working for the Dark Lord,” he uttered, knowing that these children ought to know what they were getting into.

Hermione turned even paler. “Oh no, Neville!”

“Promise me!” he snarled.

“Yes sir,” all three said.

“Good.” With that, he began to direct the pieces, placing Hermione, Draco, and Harry in places that hopefully wouldn’t see too much movement. In between the challenge that was chess – and wasn’t it sheer luck, that he’d been playing chess with Minerva for so long, and was rather good at winning? – he managed to extract the rest of the story.

They had been in their appropriated classroom, all of them except Neville, who had wanted a private meltdown after exams. Harry had felt something try to breach the Potter wards he’d placed on the classroom, and Draco had reported the same about his own wards. Considering the wards themselves had held, they hadn’t thought anything much of it. Surely, if it were a teacher, they would have broken through them? Harry had reasoned. Hermione’s detection spells had caught nothing, and Draco had been willing to follow his friend’s lead of ignoring that strange moment unless something else happened.

 “Then, when we got back to the Common Room,” Harry continued, walking to where Severus was directing him, “there was a note on my bed. It wasn’t signed or anything, but I recognized Quirrell’s writing from when he’d corrected Hermione on the essay on the Occamy! He’d been wrong, and Hermione had been furious about it, waving the essay in the air until I could practically memorize it! It said - it said - that if I ever wanted to see Neville Longbottom alive again, I would bring myself to the third-floor corridor and “assist.” It had to do with the stone, I thought! The other teachers wouldn’t believe us, I figured, since students shouldn’t know about the Philosopher's Stone in the first place, and the Baron told us Dumbledore wasn’t even here! We had to go, Professor! Quirrell wanted me, it was my fault Neville was taken!” Harry was babbling, face pale but determined, green eyes flashing in a was that was heartbreakingly familiar yet singularly different.

“I volunteered to come get you, Uncle,” Draco continued the tale, “since we promised we wouldn’t get involved in all that, and we knew you’d believe us.”

“I thought of getting Dobby to help, but we didn’t know what traps or wards there were, what Quirrell was planning, why he wanted Harry for -”

“And so we decided to not risk anyone else,” Draco finished.

Severus nodded, but focused his attention back on the game. He knew there was a “master key” that would allow them to pass, but only Minerva was in possession of it. If anyone else had enchanted the room and the chess set, he would have blasted everything out of his path. However, this was Minerva’s work, and he wasn’t willing to risk harming the children.

In this situation, it seemed better to merely play their way across. There were more of his chess pieces destroyed, strewn across the board and on its sides, but Minerva had never quite gotten the hang of beating someone who thought like a Slytherin spy, and with three last moves he was able to walk up and call, “Checkmate.” The game was over - but this night wasn’t.

“Finally,” he muttered, and strode forward. The troll had already been taken care of, courtesy of Quirrell, and he smirked darkly when they arrived at his own ‘protection.’ There was only one tiny bottle that would allow passage through the flames, but as any self-respecting Potions Master, he carried a full kit with him at all times. Thankfully, he had enough to get him and Harry through.

“Draco, Hermione, both of you wait here. This here is what will allow you to pass back. We will free Neville and send him here; as soon as we get him in this chamber, run back as quickly as possible. My study has all manner of antidotes - you may avoid the Infirmary, if we’re all lucky. Don’t try to act the heroes. Quirrell wants Harry Potter, and that’s the _only_ reason he’s coming with me. Try not to get caught. I don’t trust Albus, especially not after this debacle.”

His godson and one of his best friends nodded seriously, and secure in the knowledge that they’d listen to him, Severus gave Harry the bottle he’d been carrying with him. Severus himself took the one on display, and after a second of consideration, swiped that damned riddle that Albus had wanted him to write.

“Come, and be quiet,” he hissed, casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself. Without wasting any time, he motioned for the boy to walk through the flames, following suit. In order to get Neville away, he’d need the element of surprise.

Harry unflinchingly walked into the room, where Quirrell was standing in front of the bloody _Mirror of Erised_ , as if that artifact belonged as a defence against immortality-seeking maniacs. Severus followed and quickly hid himself in one of the back corners, far away from Quirrell and the Mirror, relying on everything he’d learnt as a Death Eater and spy to hide his presence completely.

“Harry Potter!” Quirrell hissed in delight, that damnable stutter gone. “I knew you’d come!”

Quirrell was still looking in the mirror, Neville bound and gagged at his feet. The longer Severus took in the scene, the more his Mark tingled. Somehow, the Dark Lord was in this room.

Harry clearly wanted to cry out as soon as he laid eyes on his friend, but he managed to find his composure and began walking toward that piece of filth.

“We suspected you,” Harry began, stalling and giving Severus more time to begin loosening Neville’s bonds. It was tricky work, doing it from a distance in a way Quirrell wouldn’t notice. However, Harry Potter was a true Slytherin, and as he spun his tale of blame and how they’d known it was Quirrell and had been spying on him, which prompted Quirrell to launch into an impassioned monologue, Severus managed to silence Neville, loosen his bonds enough, and Disillusion him.

By the time Quirrell noticed, it was too late - Severus had levitated Neville, slipped him the vial that would allow him to pass through the flames, and shoved him through the entryway.

“What?” he roared, wand drawn at Harry. What followed next was absolute chaos. A voice, familiar but not, began hissing - it came from the back of Quirrell’s head, and when the man himself removed his turban, the wrecked visage of the Dark Lord was revealed.

His own outrage - how had anyone not noticed this - was pushed away, and he went to stand beside Harry, still cloaked and invisible.

“Who’s there?” Quirrell kept screaming, biting out spells that ricocheted on the walls, while the Dark Lord rasped, “Use the boy! Use the boy to find the stone!”

Harry himself sprung into action - he began to run back to the entranceway, but Quirrell managed to grasp the boy’s wrist. Immediately, the man’s skin began to burn, and Harry began to yell in pain. Severus instantly knew that if Harry kept on touching Quirrell, the man would burn up and die; in the process, Harry Potter might not only give himself irreparable damage, he would become a killer.

Severus had been hesitating on the correct course of action - kidnap Quirrell and force the plans and secrets out of that snivelling wreck, or exorcise the Dark Lord - but this made up his mind. He _would not allow_ an 11-year-old to be responsible for someone’s death, not even in self-defense.

Without hesitation, he raised his wand and uttered “ _Avada Kedavra_!” in a hard, detached tone. He’d never liked killing, not even in true service to the Dark Lord, but as a double agent he’d had to get used to doing what needed to be done, and that included cold-blooded murder. This time, however, he had no regrets. Quirrell, from what he’d himself said to Harry, had chosen this path. As Harry scrambled back, and Quirrell fell dead on the stone floor, the incorporeal form of the Dark Lord manifested and dissipated out of the room. The threat was taken care of.

Immediately, Severus dropped down to where Harry lay panting, wrist burned and other hand clutching his scar. The boy was in shock, and feverish, and who knew what else. Quirrell was dead, the bloody stone was safe, and the Dark Lord was without a corporal body once more - the aftermath of all this would be dealt with at a later date. Now, Severus stopped cloaking himself, Stunned Harry, and hauled the too-thin body in his arms.

The Hospital Wing wouldn’t be avoided tonight, it would seem. As he went back the way they’d come, he noted that the three other children were nowhere to be found, which allowed him to focus on the one in his arms. It felt like he’d never run faster, and he was panting with exertion and _fear_ as he arrived in the Hospital Wing. For years now, he’d had three goals in life; defeat the Dark Lord when he surfaced again, protect Lily Evans Potter’s son, and watch over his godson and his friend. Tonight, he’d failed almost all three, and it was not acceptable.

“Severus!” Poppy exclaimed as she appeared, drawn by the commotion of his arrival. Wordlessly, Severus laid Harry on one of the empty beds, and began to tell a highly abridged version of what had happened. Ever since his school days, his relationship with Poppy was a complicated one, but he knew he could trust her discretion and abilities, and that she wouldn’t blab to Albus about every little thing.

“Well, nothing seems too wrong with him. I’m glad you Stunned him, because he does have a fever, deep magical exhaustion, and I’m sensing quite a bit of pain from that blasted curse scar - and that isn’t very comfortable at all. One night in the Hospital Wing, rest and lots of fluids, and he should be fine.”

Severus, loathe to leave Harry, summoned Dobby and told him to take a message to Draco. That way, all three would know that Harry was fine, and to not gallivant about the castle in the night-time. As he settled in for a long night of vigil, the Occlumency that had kept him focused and his emotions in check slipped, and vicious anger began to bubble to the surface. Albus had deliberately allowed the students in his care to be hurt, and he himself hadn’t noticed the complete truth about Quirrell until it was too late!

“I swear to you,” he whispered to the still boy on the bed, voice no longer detached, “that I will do my utmost best to not only keep you alive, but to let you live.” Albus Dumbledore clearly had plans with Harry Potter, and whether they be for the ‘greater good’ or not, Severus wouldn’t stand for it anymore. There was nothing he could do about Harry going back to _Petunia_ , of all people - the night after he’d found that out, he’d thrashed his bedroom. In no universe was keeping Harry Potter safe and well synonymous with Petunia Evans Dursley’s tender ministrations. But he could do everything in his power to make that bearable, and to make sure no-one, not Albus or any Ministry stooge or any other teacher, would exploit him.

In the morning, when Harry began to stir and Poppy came bustling in with her strict instructions, Severus went back to clear the evidence. Pouring over one of his own concoctions, he reduced Quirrell’s body to nothing, put all the traps back to rights, and erased any signs of his presence and that of the children.

Albus might be Headmaster, but the castle had always liked him, and a spy as good as him always knew how to cover his tracks. The wards of the school wouldn’t betray what had truly happened the night before, which would all be for the best. Severus would have liked to extract the stone, because it clearly had been put in the Mirror of Erised, but he had no idea how, and with no way of contacting the Flamels, he had no wish of actually possessing the stone for any period of time. Immortality did not interest him, not anymore, and there were better ways of getting gold.

“There,” he whispered to himself, and made his way back to his quarters. Draco, Hermione and Neville were asleep on blankets Dobby must have conjured from somewhere. While Neville was sleeping fitfully - no wonder, after what had just happened - his friends had managed to tend to his superficial injuries.

Reluctantly, he gently nudged them awake, and sent them to bed.

“Harry ought to be joining you soon,” he told Draco, “so make sure to have a cover story if necessary.”

“Keep an eye on him,” he told Hermione, glancing at Neville who still looked fearful, but thankfully alive and well. “Let him know that if he needs anything, he can come to me.” Somehow, along the way, he’d taken a bit of a liking to Longbottom as well, and Salazar knew he was almost in the same situation as Harry. Now he had the protection of _four_ children to worry about, on top of defeating the Dark Lord who he’d faced tonight.

Alone in his rooms, Severus strengthened his wards, changed his rumpled and dusty clothes, and headed out again. His destination? The Room of Requirement. Having spent the last few years in close proximity to his godson and what he’d thought the Muggle friend had forced Severus to come up with better coping mechanisms than hard drinking or destroying his rooms with his rage.

So now, with the Room providing him with a perfect battleground, he began to cast, exorcising his anger and his fear by blasting dummies and furniture and whatever objects the Room had conjured. Severus had found that fighting was a better way to vent his rage than just bottling it up all the time; while he could rely on his Occlumency no matter the situation, using it all the time only begged for disaster. He rarely got angry anymore, and had long passed that stage of catatonic grief he’d found himself at the end of the war. But Severus knew himself, and his temper, and he refused to allow it to get the best of him.

After his cathartic venting of rages and curses that he invented and perfected, Severus went to his personal potions lab, and began brewing. There was work to do, and plans to put into action. Something had to be done about Harry and Neville’s living situations.

Thus, the day passed quickly, and wasn’t surprised when Albus finally came back from the Ministry, and visited his rooms. The Headmaster queried as to where Quirrell was, and if anyone had disturbed the stone (was that eagerness in his voice? Yes, it was), Severus was in perfect control, and smirked darkly.

He had no idea, Severus told Albus, but it was possible Quirrell had decided to flee, the spineless coward. As for the stone, as far as he knew it was safe and sound, and surely Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel were eager to get their possession back? Severus took much glee in the look of shock and frustration on Albus’ face. The truth was, Severus had never trusted Albus, and the fact that Lily had died was the proof of the man’s fallibility.

But until this year, he’d resigned himself to being Dumbledore’s agent, to following the man’s instructions, and to working with him until the Dark Lord was defeated. Harry Potter had changed that, and no longer was Severus confident in Albus’ plans. The whole thing with the stone smacked of a trap, with obstacles easy enough for first-years to get by alone and unaided, and the fact that Albus hadn’t realized that Quirrell had been hosting the Dark Lord? No, now it was clear that their paths and priorities diverged. Let Albus come to whatever conclusions he wanted - Severus had mastered the art of plausible deniability a long time ago.

As Albus left, looking troubled, Severus smiled to himself as he picked up yesterday’s book. Somehow, he’d managed to care about more than potential NEWT students and eradicating the Dark Lord, and no-one messed with the children who’d wormed their way into his conscious. After all, Severus Snape, Potions Master and Death Eater, was someone you did not want to anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! A new chapter! I apologize so much for the long delay - Real Life interrupted in a major way... Hopefully this chapter makes up for the wait, even just a little bit!
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for reading and commenting and leaving kudos!
> 
> P.S. It is important to remember that Severus Snape, whether a tragic hero or an evil villain, is a very dangerous person you don't want to mess with...


	18. The Summer of Letters, Werewolves, and House-Elves (Second Year)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which letters are exchanged, cryptic warnings are given, and plans are formed (it is important to never underestimate the will and determination of children, especially when it comes to the partnership of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy).

Neville Longbottom sat with a thump on his bed, back in the Manor after his first year at Hogwarts.

It seemed a bit ridiculous how, on the Hogwarts Express, he had been so scared and so alone, and now felt the absolute opposite. This past year...had been beyond his imaginings. He had  _ three  _ real friends now, a very frightening teacher who still had taken the time to  _ help  _ him, even though he was still hopeless in Potions, had been kidnapped - and rescued! - and had an photo album full of amazing memories. For the first time ever, Neville had people who actually seemed to like and care about  _ him _ , instead of wanting him to be someone different.

After a moment of contemplation while hugging that album to his chest, Neville rose and faced his mirror. It was a talking mirror, which Gran had insisted on even though he’d always hated those things - you could only be told you looked too pudgy or too meek or too messy before you cracked. This time, however, as the mirror babbled on about the state of his clothes and his overall ‘unacceptable-ness,’ all he could think of was that feeling when Harry had walked in, determined and ready to save him from Quirrell, who’d turned out to be even more creepy and evil than they had thought. 

“They saved me,” Neville murmured. “Harry, and Hermione, and Draco, and even P-Professor Snape!” Actually being kidnapped and held as a hostage hadn’t been as traumatising as Hermione especially had feared it would be. All his life he’d been tested in various life-threatening ways for signs of magic, and even Quirrell’s manic eyes and the way the ropes he’d been bound with  _ hurt _ , wasn’t that scary. 

The utterly terrifying part came from being bait, which was meant to entice someone to come to save you. Before that night, he’d never have thought that anyone would actually brave facing a madman to rescue him. But they had! All of them had come.  _ For him _ . Even now, he had a guarantee that his friends would  _ always  _ come. 

“It was meant to be a birthday present,” Draco had drawled on the Hogwarts Express, where they’d commandeered a compartment of their own, “but we’ve decided to give it to you now.”

“It’s your Remembrall, and you can change it back to its original size if you Gran asks you to see it,” Harry had added eagerly. 

“It’s simple. Firstly, we figured that an object that tells you you’ve forgotten something, but not what it is, isn’t very useful, so Harry had Professor Flitwick help him with that. Now, it should tell you  _ what  _ you’ve forgotten in the form of simple pictograms. Best we could do at the moment, sadly. Secondly, it’s now a homing beacon - like a distress signal. If anything happens, and you need us to rescue you, or you simply can’t find us, activate it through skin contact and the whispered “Mayday,” and it will send an SOS message to my necklace, or Draco’s - it’s a modified form of the Protean charm that links our two necklaces. It not only tells us you’re in trouble - it also pinpoints your location for us, like a GPS! Muggle thing,” she’d added at Neville’s baffled expression. 

The Remembrall, now the size of a small marble, hung on the end of a fine chain - “to put around your neck. We figured that making it a bracelet would be a liability for gardening and Herbology.”

Then they’d looked, all three of them, with eager and proud faces, as if to reassure him that Neville being kidnapped would never happen again, but if it did, they were prepared. That had truly been the nicest thing anyone had done for him - which trumped the previous one, which had been Harry saving this same Remembrall despite personal risk. 

“Thank you,” he’d choked out, and kept glancing at it for the rest of the train ride to the station. 

That wasn’t all. He didn’t just have memories, an album full of pictures, and a multi-purpose Remembrall - he had even more! Professor Snape, who terrified him even more after the kidnapping-and-rescue, but in a reassuring way, if that made sense, had given him two boxes full of extraordinary things. 

One was premier plants, seeds, and gardening equipment that would be so helpful in Longbottom Manor’s greenhouses, of which he was the unofficial caretaker. The second box was full of potions and poisons. Things that would break down any material, like obstacles, potions that would change his appearance - “in case you need to disappear for any reason,” and so much more. The potions box was filled with so many things in cases of emergencies, or for any kind of trouble he’d encounter. 

The best thing, however, in Neville’s mind, was that little piece of parchment hidden underneath a vial. It was a reminder, visceral and real, that should anything happen to him, he had a whole host of people ready to fight for him.

The contents of the boxes were probably something that a teacher ought to not give to an 11-year-old boy, but Neville certainly wasn’t ungrateful. In fact, he’d almost blubbered right in front of Professor Snape, when the most feared teacher of Hogwarts had taken the time to give him gifts reminding him that he mattered, and that he had potential, and that he wasn’t being taught secret after-class lessons for no reason. That had definitely gone on the list of the nicest things anyone had ever done for him, especially the low, “Should you need anything, Mr. Longbottom, you know my personal Floo. I’m not in the habit of wasting my time, which in this case means your continued well-being is an important concern of mine.”   

For the first time in forever, Neville wasn’t dreading the stifling loneliness of summer. He had friends to write to, a teacher who had instructed him to read certain potions texts (“Under no circumstance, Mr. Longbottom, are you to brew potions this summer, especially without supervision. Do we have an understanding?”), and the materials to make his greenhouse thrive. Most importantly, there were multiple people who would very much care should anything happen to him, and not just as  a means of preserving the Longbottom bloodline, or keeping Frank Longbottom’s only child alive. 

“You know what, Trevor?” Neville finally said, looking away from his reflection. “These summer hols are going to be amazing.”

With a smile, he took those two very precious boxes, tucked Trevor into his pocket, and headed toward the greenhouses. Gran might think he was a disappointment, and a disgrace to the name of his father, but out there in the world, there were four people who  _ actually  _ believed in him; that lonely, isolated boy from the first of September on the verge of tears had had nothing to worry about. For him, this was a fact that bore repeating. Multiple times. 

This past year had not always been easy, and Gryffindor Tower didn’t always feel like  _ home _ , but with Harry, Hermione, Draco, and even Professor Snape on his side, Neville felt like he could take on the world.

_ - _

Hermione Granger was, quite honestly, having the time of her life.

She was in her room, with Draco sitting beside her - as always, looking so out-of-place yet  _ belonging _ , among the ordinary, non-magical existence of her home - plotting ways to interfere in government and school proceedings. 

“This reminds me a bit of Paul and Valentine Wiggin, deciding to involve themselves in politics and take power,” she remarked idly to her friend, who was nose-deep in sheafs of correspondence.

“Well, unlike them, you’re not a psychopath or planning on taking over the world, or both, so, I would posit you as a social crusader instead of a pair of genius siblings who managed to fool everyone around them and climb the ranks of power.”

“True,” Hermione said, “and I’m more focused on our noble institution instead of the Ministry, unlike you. What has your Father written?”

“He’s managed to exile McNair out of the Ministry, and discredit him so thoroughly that no-one will want to associate with him, so our esteemed government is out of one sentient-rights-hating psychopath. I have a feeling that before the summer ends, he won’t be a problem at all,” Draco added softly.

“I’m glad,” Hermione said fiercely. She knew how much the events of Yule had affected Draco, and that burning fire in the face of injustice she’d seen in him hadn’t abated one bit. Personally, she’d never liked the man, not with how Draco always described him, and the thought that he could’ve severely hurt Draco? After all the other horrible things he’d done? Him being exiled from the Ministry, and persona-non-grata amongst the Pureblood elites was poetic justice. And if Draco’s Father, who was a ruthless Death-Eater, decided to off McNair? Hermione didn’t condone that, of course, but she wouldn’t cry when the  _ Daily Prophet _ , which Draco liked to read aloud in exaggerated voices, announced his death. Maybe that made her a horrible person, but Hermione didn’t mind a whit.

Instead of just doing their experiments and foray into the magical world, which was their usual modus operandi, this summer they had set themselves three goals. The Hogwarts Problem, the Dobby Problem, and the Werewolf Problem. Ambitiously, they had decided to begin involving themselves in problems that desperately needed solving. Problems that no-one was doing anything about.

First was the Werewolf Problem, which was mostly an umbrella term for Draco’s process of radically changing the wizarding world’s attitude toward werewolves. This included undermining the Ministry’s discriminatory practices, somehow distributing accurate material concerning werewolves (“We’ll have to actually meet some, and let them tell us about their experiences”) to the public, passing pro-werewolf legislation - as sneakily as possible - and hopefully, bit by bit, change the Wizarding world’s perception of werewolves to a point they weren’t complete social pariahs. Hermione knew how much Yule had solidified Draco’s position. If that sort of thing was Ministry-sanctioned, it didn’t seem like anyone else was interested in changing the status quo.

It might be a bit much, for a single 11-year-old pureblood boy to do, but this was Draco. Someone who’d befriended someone he’d thought was a Muggle and kept it a secret from his parents, who’d managed in one night to ruin the careers of two allegedly horrible people, who’d helped smuggle a dragon out of Hogwarts with no-one the wiser, who was the equivalent of an underage mad scientist/Q, who had his family’s loyalty and political savviness, and who had the world’s best godfather (in Hermione’s admittedly biased opinion). If anyone could pull it off, it would be him, with his friends helping him along the way. 

The first order of business, Draco had explained to her, was to keep abreast of the doings of the Ministry and the Wizengamot, and start building contacts. That was the integral part of the plan - having influence isn’t possible without the people to influence or to help with the influencing. 

“Right now, I’ve started reading Father’s correspondence; he thinks I’m eager to step into my role in life as sole heir to the Malfoy family. I’ve also started owling some Ministry underlings. Slow and steady to start with,” he said fiercely. 

Staring at Draco’s determined face, Hermione felt giddiness bubbling throughout her body. They were starting a revolution! She’d always wanted to make a difference, from the very first time she’d understood prejudice and discrimination and injustice. When she’d learned about this new world, one that seemed just as worse as the one she knew - sometimes even worse, if that was possible! - she’d been even more incensed. They had an opportunity now, to try and do some good, and Hermione Granger was definitely not going to squander it. 

Her own project, when she wasn’t helping Draco, was the Hogwarts Problem. The foremost school of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Britain was riddled with problems, this she knew viscerally. She had almost been killed due to lack of safety protocols, and the fact that an evil wizard possessed by the latest Dark Lord had been allowed to teach in a school! Not to mention the whole three-headed dog and Philosopher’s Stone debacle. No school was ever truly safe, nor perfect, but any self-respecting education board would have kittens if they’d gotten hold of how Hogwarts did things. There were the school brooms, which once again underlined the problem of student safety.

Hogwarts wasn’t safe, and the teachers either didn’t seem to care, or were too busy with their own problems! There was also the segregation of the students, and the rampant prejudices the school atmosphere  _ encouraged _ . Slytherins were the pariahs, a dichotomy (the oppressed minority while also being the superior majority), Hufflepuffs, whose values were essential - hard work, loyalty, etc. - were ignored, and Gryffindors seemed to be the beloved of the school. Most importantly, that prejudice apparently continued even after Hogwarts. You were forever determined by your House… 

No, something had to be done. If only there was a way to distribute information, to encourage the sharing of ideas and somehow begin to end the divide between Houses, between the different sorts of muggleborns and half-bloods and purebloods… Pamphlets? Badges? She had no idea. The only progress she’d made so far was to write down and categorize all the information she’d felt was relevant. The Hogwarts Problem especially would be a challenge, but Hermione was one who thrived on such things.

So most of the summer passed this way, Hermione and Draco holed up in her room, making plans. Hermione had decided to ask Draco’s help with her project; change in Hogwarts had to come from within and without. So they corresponded with fellow students, with low-ranking Ministry employees (positing themselves as eager students interested in learning more and broadening their views), and slowly they felt they were making headway. This summer, they both agreed, was really about laying foundations. Making contacts, being aware of the legislation, focusing on what they themselves could do to help without making things worse.

Throughout all this, the giddiness and the determination of  _ actually doing something _ , the House-Elf problem was always lurking in the back of their minds. However, since Dobby, Hermione’s only real connection to House-Elves, seemed to be off doing his own things, it had to be tabled. One of the most shocking things about the Wizarding world for Hermione to swallow had always been the problem of House-Elves. Discrimination, that she knew about, saw even in the Muggle world. Slavery, though? A group of beings, quite powerful beings, being exploited by ruthless, prejudiced, indifferent wizards and witches? That was something she could not stand at all.

Knowing about this slave labour, much less benefiting from it… Unthinkable. There were important problems, however. House-Elves apparently relied on that bond with their witch and wizard; from what Dobby had told her over the years, the current situation was the result of a symbiotic relationship being corrupted. Also, most House-Elves  _ loved  _ serving their masters, despite how terribly most were treated. Dobby had...certain ideas about freedom and such, but had made it clear that most didn’t share his views. 

During the year, when not studying or participating in dangerous and illegal situations, Hermione had asked Dobby the way to the kitchens. If she wanted to help, Dobby had stated, she’d need to see the situation, understand it. Through fruitful conversations with the Hogwarts House-Elves, while trying to avoid screaming about horrible wizards and injustice and freedom, Hermione had compiled a whole notebook of information and ideas. The plan had been to work on it over the summer, but since Dobby kept on popping out and doing his own thing - “I wouldn’t worry too much; Dobby can handle himself,” Draco had told her, though he did look troubled - it wasn’t quite possible.

Instead, she focused on Hogwarts while Draco focused on the werewolves. Hermione also spent quite a bit of time with her neighbor, the retired prof from uni, debating ethics, learning from history, and asking about hypothetical scenarios. The point of these projects was to find ways to help the werewolves and the House-Elves and Hogwarts, and Hermione knew she had much to learn.

“Always nice to see such enthusiasm from the new generation,” the prof huffed gruffly one day, hiding a smile in his salt-and-pepper beard. Hermione, sitting on a pouf, thick book open on her lap, beamed. 

Apart from their summer projects, Hermione also spent quite a bit of time exchanging letters with Harry and Neville, and even with Pansy (through Draco, of course). While neither of the boys were great letter-writers, it was nice to hear about their adventures, or lack thereof, and keeping in touch with them. As with last year, Hermione and Draco were able to meet up with Harry, which was one of the highlights of the summer. They stuck to going to London, which was far enough from the Dursleys and the Malfoys to have fun; they went to museums and cafes and parks, and once even got into a debate about the merits of football. Of course, since all the participants were children, the arguments were not quite developed. While Hermione stuck her nose in a book, and Draco sat out - a bored, posh child refusing to discuss such a  _ plebian  _ sport - Harry seemed to love hearing the opinions of local kids.

Neville, sadly, couldn’t sneak away no matter how much he wanted to, but the letters were a nice substitute. It was quite a heady feeling, having so many friends who cared about you, and would put up with your ramblings and varied interests, even if they themselves couldn’t care less. Hermione had been lucky, to have had Draco for a lot of her life. Having more friends, though - true friends - was a truly amazing occurrence. 

“It’s such an amazing feeling!” she gushed to her parents one night as they ate pot roast. Draco was busy at some pureblood party, Harry was stuck at the Dursleys, and she hadn’t seen Neville all summer. Yet she felt more connected and less alone than ever. “Thank you for that beautiful box, mum! I keep all my letters in there.” An overflowing box of letters from her friends; there was nothing better.

In fact, things were going so well that Hermione kept on waiting for the other shoe to drop. Unlike Draco, who was sometimes...superstitious about certain things, Hermione tried to keep a level head, despite the magic she knew existed in the world. While the Wizarding world wasn’t logical, Hermione was, and until her first year at Hogwarts, she left the omens and portents and premonitions of doom to her best friend. 

The Hermione of the summer of 1992, however, had survived trolls and a Cerberus and dragons and mythical stones, and teachers whom one couldn’t trust. Draco’s outlook on life had caught on, and so when Dobby popped up out of the blue, in the abandoned park Hermione had met Draco in all these years ago, she was resigned instead of surprised.

“There is a plot…” Dobby began, more worried than she’d ever seen him. Draco, fastidiously avoiding sitting on the wet swings, blanched. Dobby wasn’t aware of the details, he said apologetically. He felt that it had something to do with the fact that he served Master Draco; thus, unlike before, he wasn’t privy to the plans of the Malfoy patriarch. All he knew was that danger would come to Hogwarts, that it probably had to do with the Dark Lord, and that it was most likely minorities ( _ mudbloods _ ) who would be targeted. 

Draco, who hadn’t said anything throughout Dobby’s halting explanation, continued to stay silent after everything had been recounted. He didn’t rage at Dobby, or question his truthfulness. Draco trusted Dobby, and Dobby trusted Draco, and they were more friends than servant and master. There was no question, in his mind or in Hermione’s, of Dobby’s integrity.

“Hey, hey,” she soothed. Still Draco did not say anything.

Draco’s father was plotting something designed to hurt people, and Hermione felt that his gut reaction was hurt. Not betrayal. Draco, she knew, had come to terms that his father wasn’t a good man. He was someone who loathed anyone he thought was beneath him, who had implied to his son that he’d kill the man who had, to be clear, threatened his son. He’d pledged his allegiance to a bigoted madman who’d wanted to burn the world to the ground. Yet stooping to harming a schooling institution? To hurting wizarding children? Hermione was lucky that her parents were good people, and good parents, and that she’d never have to go against their wishes and views.

“We have to warn Harry and Neville, and let Pansy spread the word to her circle of people. And we’ll have to keep an eye out, be extra-vigilant,” Hermione said, squeezing Draco’s hand. No words would make this okay, and her heart ached for him.

“You’re right,” her best friend whispered softly, and asked Dobby to bring him to the Manor. “Give my excuses to your parents. I’m afraid I won’t be good company for dinner tonight.”

Hermione nodded, and made her way home, blinking back tears. The joy and jubilation of the summer had gone away, and everything felt...subdued. They didn’t know what the threat was, but Lucius Malfoy was probably someone who wasn’t to be underestimated. It would be okay, however. They’d get to the bottom of this, if no-one else would.

While the rest of August passed slowly, and Draco refused to speak much, the fire in both of them - the one born out of facing injustice - was only blazing harder. The world was a harsh and cruel place, and Hermione didn’t kid themselves that they would be able to fix all the problems. They probably ought not to, anyways, when those problems didn’t concern themselves personally. But they could try their best to look at injustice, and try to fight against it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I apologize for the very long wait. Hopefully this chapter somewhat makes up for it!
> 
> Thank you everyone, as always, for reading this story, and for the lovely comments and kudos! :) 
> 
> P.S. One of the gifts given to Neville is inspired by Loten's Chasing the Sun.  
> P.P.S. The House-Elf lore is heavily inspired by Survival is a Talent by Shanastoryteller.


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